Chapter 24: Adrift
Malik walked fast. He didn't turn his head to look at his yami, but he was highly aware of his presence, of his footsteps following him like a shadow.
How had Mariku found him? How had he found out where he lived? And where the hell had he been all this time?
Malik would make sure to get some answers. He didn't care what it would take, but his yami wasn't gonna get out of this easily.
The city was nearly empty at this hour of the night. They walked in total silence, under yellow lamp-light and neon shop signs. Malik intentionally chose the most well-lit streets he could find, avoiding shortcuts through side-alleys, just in case. He wasn't afraid of Mariku, and he was more than confident of his self-defense abilities, but he'd better not push his luck. He didn't know yet what Mariku's goal was. Sure, he had said he just wanted to talk, but...
Who could blame Malik for not trusting him?
Damn it. After all this time, and after all the work Malik had done, Mariku had still been able to return. All the therapy, and the meditation, and the anger management sessions, and the yoga classes... it had all been for nothing. None of that kept Mariku away. Nothing that Malik had done, none of his efforts mattered.
Who could he blame it on this time? Which god, or which demon? Or maybe simply Blackwood? Malik wanted to know, because all this fucking anger had to be directed somewhere. It couldn't all just be a perverse twist of fate.
He was nearly running, fueled by anger and adrenaline. His previous fatigue was gone, and he could hardly feel the weight of his bag on his shoulder. Once or twice he was tempted to turn around and confront Mariku right then and there, in the middle of the street, to just put an end to this. But that was unwise. This wasn't the time to be brash and impulsive. He had some serious questions that needed answers, and he wasn't gonna let his yami off the hook easily. So they'd go to the Crow, and they'd sit the fuck down and talk.
Huh, maybe the anger-management sessions had been worthwhile, after all.
A few minutes later the Crow came into view, its industrial façade dark and imposing save for the single lantern that swung over the sign. It crossed Malik's mind that willingly revealing his workplace to his yami might be a very stupid idea. On the other hand, Mariku had already found out Malik's home address—surely it wouldn't be hard for him to find his work address, too, if he really wanted to. Maybe it was better like this. Now that this was out of the way, Malik might avoid unpleasant surprises in the future.
He walked up to the heavy sliding door and unlocked the padlock, then proceeded to unlock the inner doors and pushed them open.
The bar was plunged in darkness. In the light filtering in from the street, Malik could see the familiar counter, the tables, the beams on the ceiling. Deeper in, the furniture was creating undefined shadows in the gloom. It was eerily silent, the same way it always was at night, after the large speakers were turned off and the patrons were gone. The space felt too vast, nearly cavernous without the music and the people to fill it, and the high ceiling seemed to echo with the remembrance of noise.
Malik went straight to the bar and jumped over the counter in one fluid motion. He let his bag slip off his shoulder and reached for the light switch; with a swift hit, a single lightbulb came to life, right over Malik's usual spot. Malik stood under it, the way he always did, placed his hands on the countertop and turned his gaze to Mariku.
The yami had walked in, closing the heavy sliding door behind him. He took a curious look around, even though barely anything was visible beyond the small illuminated patch of counter where Malik was waiting.
Slowly, he approached. Light hit wild tufts of hair, a forehead rumpled by a frown, and finally shone in a pair of lavender eyes as they turned towards Malik. Malik straightened, keeping the eye contact with a near-defiance, not backing down. He took in his yami's image.
It was like looking in a warping mirror. The features were the same, the hair color, the skin color, the height and build. It was all there. The overhead light cast sharp shadows on him, making fatigue stand out on his face. His eyes looked a bit puffy and tired, the same way Malik's did whenever he slept rough for a night or two but, apart from that, Mariku looked... okay. He looked well-fed and his clothes were clean; he didn't look like he was living on the streets, starving or struggling to survive.
Which was suspicious. How had Mariku managed to get by for this long? Had he robbed, or maybe even murdered some unsuspecting citizen? Malik didn't put it past him.
He narrowed his eyes, still examining his yami. "Sit," he said curtly, nodding towards one of the high stools.
Mariku obeyed. The shadows danced on his face as he moved, cutting jutting shadows under his cheekbones and jaw. The bags under his eyes stood out even more harshly. He was wearing a khaki jacket—which, frankly, didn't look half bad—and his hair was in serious need of some conditioner and a brush.
Malik laid his palms flat on the counter. The feel of the familiar wood calmed him down, making him feel safe and confident. He straightened his back, pulling himself in his full height, and looked down at Mariku.
"I'm warning you. Don't try to pull any funny shit."
Mariku looked confused for a second. "...Funny shit?" His voice was rough, and hearing it once again made a shudder run up Malik's spine, but he stood his ground.
"Make any suspicious move and you'll regret it," he said. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the knife they used to cut the limes and mentally calculated the motions he'd have to do to grab it, should the need arise. He kept it in the back of his head, muscles in the ready.
"I'm not here to pull funny shit," Mariku said.
"Why are you here, then?"
"I told you. I want to talk to you." Again, Mariku seemed to measure his words before speaking, as if he was being very careful with what he was saying.
Malik did not relax in the slightest. "Alright. Talk, then. How did you find me?"
"Phonebook," Mariku said.
Malik cursed inwardly. Of course. Had it been that simple, then?
"Where have you been all this time?"
"Tokyo."
"Shit," Malik breathed. He had suspected it, but having it confirmed was a whole other thing. Mariku had probably turned up at some place close to the movie studio Malik had been working at at the time. Maybe some side street, maybe right outside the entrance. Malik should have known. He should have... searched or something.
"And you've been there all this time?"
"Yes," Mariku said.
"How long?" Malik asked, just to confirm his theory.
"Uh... Two months, I think."
That proved it, then: Mariku had been resurrected along with the other yamis—and hell if Malik knew why. It made no damn sense. He huffed loudly.
"How did you come back?"
This time Mariku frowned. "I don't know. That was why I was looking for you."
"For me?"
"I thought you might know." Mariku's tone was solemn and his face was serious, and that in itself threw Malik off way more than he wanted to admit. Sure, it was better than the mad ravings and the cackling he remembered, but the change in itself was enough to put him on edge.
This wasn't the yami he knew. Mariku was sitting across from him, looking at him with a calm—albeit troubled—look, talking to him like a normal human being. He'd managed to get here all the way from Tokyo just to meet him.
Maybe it was all part of a plan. Maybe Mariku was acting, waiting for Malik to drop his guard—
Now Malik was thinking like Ryou. It was a bit paranoid. After all, this sort of scheming wasn't Mariku's style: he'd always been a more straightforward, I'll-stab-you-in-the-face kind of guy. Except he didn't seem inclined to stab anyone at the moment. If anything, Malik was the one keeping a knife in his peripheral vision, ready to grab it at the slightest provocation.
And the truth was that Mariku had been right, because Malik did indeed know a thing or two about the yamis' resurrection. But he wasn't gonna tell him anything just yet.
"First you'll answer my questions," Malik said.
"Okay," Mariku said, and damn, agreeing so readily was, again, weird. Malik half-expected the yami to flip some kind of switch any minute now and try to murder him or something.
"Alright, then," Malik went on. "How the hell did you manage to survive in Tokyo this long?"
"Grandma Aiko took me in."
"Grandma Aiko?"
"Yes."
"Who is Grandma Aiko?"
Mariku hesitated for a bit; he seemed to be searching for the right words. "She is... .Um... She found me. On the street. On the night I—came back."
"She found you on the street?"
"Yeah, she..." He hesitated again. "She asked me if I was okay. Asked if I needed help. And then she told me to follow her."
"And you went with her? Just like that?"
"Yes."
"And you didn't murder her and her whole family?" Malik said harshly, pushing him but not caring. Because this story was nuts. He couldn't believe this for a second.
Mariku's gaze slid away from Malik, fixing on the countertop. Now, Malik had never seen that look on his yami before, but he was ready to bet that he was uncomfortable. Or maybe guilty. Either way, it made Malik edge his hand a few inches closer to the lime knife.
"I didn't," Mariku said. "But I... I wanted to, at first. When she found me."
"Oh, you wanted to."
Mariku shifted in his seat, and a frown crumpled his face, making him look rather upset. "Yes. I... I didn't know where I was. I didn't know why. She approached me, and I wanted to kill her and run. All I remembered was you," his gaze flitted once upwards, to Malik's eyes, and back to the countertop, "forfeiting that match against the pharaoh, and then... darkness. I didn't know... what was going on." Words seemed to come out of him with difficulty, as if his thoughts weren't all that clear on the matter, or as if he had a hard time saying them out loud.
"What kept you, then? From killing her?" Malik said, hearing the trace of a sneer in his voice, but he couldn't help it. They were sitting here talking about the possible murder of an old lady, for fuck's sake.
Mariku was frowning at the countertop so hard it was a miracle any words came out at all. "She, uh—She gave me her coat. Helped me up. She wasn't afraid." The spasm of some emotion crossed his face for a second, making him look agitated. "I thought... I'd follow her. Just to see what her plan was. And kill her afterwards."
"Her plan?"
"I thought... Maybe it was a trick. From the Pharaoh. From you. Something. I had no plan myself, so—I followed her."
"And what happened then?"
"She took me to her home. She had—has—a dog. Fluffy. All hair and teeth. And she—Grandma Aiko—told me to sit on the couch." He looked up at Malik, some of the frown easing away. "She gave me cookies."
Malik waited, but Mariku did not elaborate.
"Cookies?" Malik repeated.
"Yes."
"She gave you cookies."
"Yes."
"And you didn't kill her?"
Mariku shook his head. "I thought I'd see... what her game was. So I ate the cookies. They were nice and... it was... weird."
"Weird?" Malik said, and Mariku nodded. "Weird how?"
Mariku's features twisted in some sort of inner struggle. He thought a lot before saying his next words. "It was... new. Something being nice... in that way. Nice without... pain."
"Nice without pain?"
Mariku nodded again.
"Wait a minute," Malik lifted a palm. "The cookies were nice and that made you not kill her?"
Mariku gazed at him. "I didn't know nice could be like that."
"You didn't—" Malik stopped talking. It all sounded absurd, but something made him pause and reconsider.
His yami was, and always had been, the manifestation of Malik's own worst feelings. All of his hate, his rage, his aggression and fear, condensed and stuffed in one entity. That was what Mariku had been.
Was it possible that this was all it had taken for Mariku? Just a small positive experience? Having a taste of something that was nice...?
He'd seen his yami express joy, back then. He'd seen him enjoy himself, and it had always, always been at the expense of someone else. Maybe that was what he meant, 'without pain': a sort of enjoyment that, for once, wasn't linked to the sadistic satisfaction of causing someone agony and sorrow.
Was that all there was to it? Had that old lady had unknowingly escaped death just by being kind to Mariku? Just by taking him in and giving him something tasty to eat—?
It was nuts, but Malik could not believe that this was all an act. His yami was many things, but he was not one for pretension. That was not his way of doing things—those sort of schemes had been more of Bakura's style. Or even Malik's.
He mulled it all over, still staring at Mariku. He tried to imagine this homicidal maniac stunned by one good act.
It was...
Insane. It was all insane.
He needed a drink.
With a huff, he pushed himself away from the counter. Without wandering too far away from the knife, he reached for his favorite whiskey and a short glass. He poured half a glass for himself—then, because he wasn't rude, he reached for a second glass and poured some for Mariku. It was his yami, after all. They were bound to like the same drinks, right?
He pushed one of the glasses to Mariku. It glittered under the light of the lightbulb.
Mariku stared at it. "What is this?"
"Try it," Malik said. He brought his own glass to his lips and drank. He wondered if Mariku had ever had alcohol before. Probably not. If fucking cookies had been such an experience, then he guessed he was in for another shock. Hopefully a positive one. If he was anything like Malik, he'd like it.
Mariku lifted his glass carefully. He sniffed it. Then, hesitantly, he took a tiny sip. He frowned at first, then his expression changed. He looked at the glass in surprise, eyebrows arching upwards.
"Whiskey," Malik said by way of explanation. "I like it."
Mariku took another sip, a bigger one this time, and Malik wondered if his yami would have the same alcohol tolerance as him. He probably would. Bakura had inherited Ryou's alcohol—and nicotine—tolerance. It made sense that it would be the same with Malik's yami, too.
There was silence for a minute or two. Mariku kept taking small sips, looking at his whiskey with a sort of awe, and Malik stared at Mariku, weighing everything he'd heard so far.
"So, what happened next?" he asked. "After the cookies."
Mariku put his glass down. "She asked me where I came from. I said I don't know. She asked if I have a family. I said—" he hesitated for a second, then said, "I said your name. She asked where you were. I said I don't know. She asked me my name. I said..." His gaze shifted away from Malik again. "I said your name again. I said, Malik. She couldn't say it properly. She called me Mariku."
Words seemed to come easier to him now, and he was speaking faster. Malik didn't know if it was the alcohol that did it, or simply the fact that they had moved on to easier subjects.
"And then?"
Mariku shrugged; it was an oddly casual gesture. "She asked if had a place to stay. I said I don't know. She told me to stay there. For that night. Then, another. I stayed." He stopped talking and stared at Malik as if to say, that's it.
Malik still couldn't get it. How could an old lady take in a stranger with such disregard for her personal safety? Sure, Mariku kept repeating that she hadn't been afraid, but...
She must have been a truly kind woman. Compassionate. Perhaps the only person that would extend a helping hand to someone like Mariku. Even Malik himself wouldn't have done what she did.
Her kindness had been the game-changer, in this case. No matter how insane it all was.
"And you stayed there for two whole months?"
Mariku nodded. "I helped her."
"With what?"
"Took Fluffy out for walks. Went shopping for groceries. All sorts of stuff. And she taught me things."
"What sort of things?"
Mariku shrugged again. When Malik realized that this was going to be all the answer he would get, he sighed.
"Alright. And you didn't kill anyone else?"
"No. Grandma said it's not right."
"She did, huh?" Malik ran a hand through his hair. Just what had his life become? He couldn't believe he was hearing this. He couldn't believe he was having this conversation. With Mariku.
Damn. Was this what Ryou felt whenever he talked with Bakura? This... surreal absurdity?
Malik could get it a bit better now.
One thing was certain of: Malik did not have in front of him the stark-mad, homicidal yami he remembered. He wasn't sure what was going on, but... Mariku, impossibly, seemed different. For starters, he'd lived with an old lady and her dog for two whole months. The Mariku of the past would never have done this.
"And how did you get here?" Malik asked.
"Bus." Then, with a hint of pride, Mariku added, "I got the money myself."
"How?" Malik asked, bracing himself. This was it: now he would undoubtedly hear something horrible, like stealing Grandma Aiko's life savings, or robbing someone off the street.
"I carried stuff. At the store. Carried boxes."
Malik had to take a minute to absorb this. "...You got a job?"
Mariku nodded. He still looked proud.
Malik ran his hand through his hair again. This was too much for one night. And he still had trouble believing all of this.
...Was it all lies? Was it all an elaborate scheme? If that was the case, then... A scheme to do what? Mariku had been alone with Malik all this time and he hadn't tried to attack him or anything. Just what could be his endgame?
And what was Malik supposed to do now? What was he supposed to do with all of this? Was he expected to just believe that his yami had returned as a changed person...?
The irony did not elude him. That was what he had been telling Ryou about Bakura for several weeks, hadn't it? And he had treated it as the world's easiest thing. Well, joke was on him.
But, the question remained. What was he supposed to do? They couldn't stay here at the Crow forever. And he couldn't just send him away and release him upon the world before he was certain that he was harmless. Because Malik was not fully convinced yet—of course he wasn't. He was still keenly aware of where the knife was, and his hand hadn't strayed too far away from it.
This Grandma Aiko story—he would have to confirm it. Maybe find a phone number and talk to her. If she even existed.
Malik huffed heavily. He didn't know what to do.
Okay. First things first. It was late, and they had to make it through the night somehow. Then, tomorrow, Malik would try to find this Grandma Aiko.
Until then... He had to keep an eye on Mariku. A close eye. He was responsible for him, after all. He was his yami. His weird, magical alter ego.
He emptied his glass in one big gulp and set it down. "Let's go," he said. Making sure his hand movements were hidden by the counter, he pocketed the lime knife.
"Go? Where?" Mariku asked.
"My place. Come on."
Malik didn't talk at all during the walk back to his place. He was alert, watching his yami out of the corner of his eye, one hand holding onto the strap of his bag and the other firmly holding the lime knife in his pocket. Weirdly enough, Mariku didn't speak either. He was keeping a small distance from Malik, as if he didn't want to crowd him, and was gazing at the city.
Malik couldn't decide if he was grateful for the silence or not. It still unnerved him, because the Mariku he remembered was never quiet and pensive like this.
They reached Malik's apartment building, and for a few seconds Malik just stared at the entrance, imagining Mariku huddled there for... how long? Had he been waiting for hours? Or maybe days? Oh god, he hoped his neighbors hadn't noticed him. Or rather, he hoped that Mariku hadn't scared the shit out of them. It was a miracle no one called the police.
He turned to look at Mariku. "How long had you been waiting here?"
Mariku looked lost in thought. He blinked a couple of times and focused his attention on Malik. "Oh... Couple of days."
"What?" Malik heard a slight shriek in his voice.
"I arrived... Yesterday afternoon."
"And you've been sitting here ever since?"
Mariku simply shrugged. "Didn't know where else to go. I thought you'd be back eventually."
Malik rubbed a hand over his face. "Did anyone see you?"
The yami shrugged again. "People came and went. No one said anything."
Malik took his keys out of his pocket with a grumble. Well. His neighbors probably mistook Mariku for Malik, and that was why they weren't alerted by his presence, but... Damn.
He unlocked the entrance and motioned at Mariku to follow him. They climbed up to the first floor and into Malik's apartment. Malik hit the light switch, let his bag drop and held the door open for Mariku. The yami followed slowly, looking around with careful curiosity, not touching anything.
Malik closed the door. He did not lock it, in case he needed to make a quick getaway. He didn't take off his jacket either, because the lime knife was in one of the pockets.
"Is this where you live now?" Mariku asked.
"Yes."
"And... Your siblings?"
"Ishizu and Rishid live in Egypt."
"You don't live with them anymore?" Mariku turned to give Malik a curious look. "Why?"
"Well. I'm older now." Something crossed his mind and he narrowed his eyes at Mariku. "Do you know how long it's been? Since... Battle City?"
"Um... Not sure. I know it's been some years."
"Twelve. Twelve years."
"Oh." Mariku did not seem all that surprised. He shrugged and looked around at the apartment again. "It's very... colorful."
"A far cry from the tomb, huh?" Malik said grimly.
Mariku did not respond.
"Come on. I'll show you around. Here, this is the kitchen." He hesitated again. It crossed his mind again that his yami had been waiting at the entrance of the building since yesterday. "Have you eaten anything?" he asked, because fuck it, he wasn't inhumane.
Mariku, who was standing at the threshold of the kitchen, shook his head.
Malik sighed. He couldn't believe this was his life now. "Fine. Sit down. I'll make you a sandwich." He motioned towards the kitchen table and Mariku obeyed: he sat at the chair that was farthest away from Malik and waited in silence.
Malik made a sandwich with cheese and tomato thinking that, if cookies had kept his yami's violent tendencies at bay, then keeping him well-fed was probably a good idea.
"Here." He put the sandwich on a plate and left it in front of Mariku. The yami was still wearing his jacket. Malik nodded towards it. "You can take that off."
"You didn't," Mariku said.
"Right," Malik murmured. He took his own jacket off, thinking that he could made do without the lime knife, if the need arise. He was great at hand-to-hand combat, too.
Mariku mimicked him and hung his jacket on the back of his chair. Then he started eating the sandwich.
Malik leaned with his hip against the kitchen counter, watching with his arms folded across his chest. About a thousand thoughts were running through his head, a thousand different scenarios and things he had to take care of. He was calculating every move he'd have to do if Mariku attacked him right now, or in the living room, or in the bathroom, or while he was asleep. Ha, as if he'd actually sleep. He bet he wasn't gonna get any shut-eye tonight.
He guessed he'd be fine if he let Mariku take the bedroom. He could lock him in, and Malik himself would spend the night in the living room, keeping watch. There was a window in the bedroom, but he really doubted the yami would jump off and escape. If he wanted to leave, he wouldn't have waited at his door for a day and a half.
Yes, locking him in the bedroom was the best plan, at least for tonight. Come morning, he'd see what he'd do. One step at a time.
When Mariku was done with the sandwich, he pushed the plate away. "Thank you," he said, enunciating clearly. Malik blinked in surprise. The yami noticed it. "What? It's the right thing to say."
"I know," Malik said. "It's just... Never mind. Come on, get up. I'll show you where you'll sleep."
Careful to never turn his back to his yami for too long, Malik showed him around the rest of his small apartment. "This is the bathroom. And this is my bedroom. That's where you'll spend the night."
"And where are you gonna sleep?"
"On the couch."
"I can sleep on the couch," Mariku said. "That's where I slept in Grandma Aiko's house."
"No, you're gonna stay here," Malik said in a tone that left no room for arguments. "And, just to be clear. I'm going to lock you in. If you want to get out during the night, to use the bathroom or whatever, knock on the door and I'll unlock it for you."
He expected Mariku to argue, or at least to look annoyed or offended in some way, but he didn't. He simply said, "Okay."
"Alright, then." Malik grabbed his pillow and a blanket and took them to the living room.
"Can I use the bathroom now?" Mariku asked.
"Sure."
Malik contemplated locking the bathroom door, too, but he decided against it. He simply stood in the living room, poised and ready, and waited until Mariku had finished washing up. And, since the opportunity arose, he took the lime knife out of his jacket's pocket and hid it under his pillow on the couch. Just in case.
When he heard the bathroom door open he jolted. Mariku came out and, for a while, they stared at each other in awkward silence.
"Alright," Malik said at last. "I'm gonna lock you in now. Here." He gave the yami a glass of water and nodded towards the bedroom.
Mariku obeyed; he took the glass and went into the bedroom without complaint.
"Alright, then," Malik said again, with one hand on the doorknob. "See you in the morning."
The yami simply stood at the center of the bedroom, holding the glass of water. "Okay."
Malik closed the door, locked him in and took the key. Damn. This whole situation was so fucking awkward. And it was... surreal. If he was ever told that he'd meet his yami again, he wouldn't have expected things between them to be awkward. He would have expected something... more heated and violent.
He sighed and went to the living room. He dropped heavily onto the couch and stayed there without moving for a while, staring at the wall across from him. He listened for any sounds from his bedroom, but none came.
He sighed again and left the key on the coffee table. Then he took out his phone to look at the time. It was four in the morning. He had two missed calls from Bakura.
Bakura. Damn. He really couldn't deal with Bakura and Ryou's shit right now, but it occurred to him that maybe he should inform someone that Mariku was back. For safety reasons. Someone should know about it, in case something happened to him.
Maybe he should call Ryou and tell him. But, goddammit, he didn't want to. He knew Ryou was going to freak out and Malik couldn't deal with it; he had his own freaking out to do. He definitely wasn't gonna tell Ishizu and Rishid yet, either. They wouldn't just freak out, they would take the first flight to Japan and be on his doorstep as soon as they could and Malik... He couldn't deal with that either. It was all too much all of a sudden.
He needed some time to process all of it. Some time to close his eyes and breathe and reclaim his balance.
This wasn't the time to be stupid, though, so he made up his mind and wrote a text to Ryou.
Mariku is back. He's here, I've locked him in the bedroom. I'm okay
He hit send before he could regret it and left his phone on the coffee table. Ryou would be probably asleep now, but Malik was certain he'd receive a call from him as soon as he woke up. He huffed heavily, really not looking forward to it.
He briefly considered texting Bakura too, but he dismissed the idea almost immediately. Bakura was a lot to handle on the best of days, and right now Malik didn't have the stamina for it.
He threw the phone on the cushions next to him and covered his face with his hands. He stayed there, eyes shut tight, breathing against his hands. Nothing else could be heard apart from his breathing and the occasional passing car from the street below.
What was he going to do? What the hell was he going to do?
Why was this happening to him? He was a good person. He'd tried hard to become one. He hadn't always been good, but—
Was this it? Was he paying for past mistakes? Was he never going to outrun his past?
No. Thinking like that was unfair. After all, his wasn't the only yami that was back. Ryou's yami was back too, and Ryou had never harmed anyone in his life. This wasn't a matter of divine justice.
He didn't know if that was a comforting thought. It left a huge why in his head. Why did this have to happen? Why to them? Why now?
What was he gonna do? He couldn't live like this, knowing that his yami was around. Or, even worse, live with his yami—because of course he wouldn't just let him go where he couldn't keep an eye on him.
He pressed his palms hard into his eyes. No, no, no, this couldn't be his life from now on. He couldn't do this. He had to find a way out.
The Spellbook. The Spellbook was the only way out. Find out how the yamis came back and undo it. Send them back where they came from and make sure they would never ever return again—
Gods, he sounded like Ryou. He could get it now. And to think that he'd once told Ryou to relax and take it easy. Quite hypocritical on his part, huh? Cause he couldn't fathom how anyone could take it easy right now.
Maybe this wasn't divine justice; maybe it was just irony.
The eyes behind his palms stung, so he pressed his hands harder against them, because he wasn't going to cry over this. He wasn't. Even though he wanted to. He wanted to cry and run away. He wanted to run to Rishid and tell him all about it, he wanted to hide and let Rishid protect him, or let Ishizu take the reins and figure it out, as she always did.
Good grief. He was feeling like he was ten years old again.
He tried to focus on his breathing and calm it down. He managed it eventually, but his thoughts kept running wild, mostly in circles. He cycled through anger, despair, resignation and then determination, over and over and over. At some point he must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, he was lying sideways on the couch, face mashed against one of the cushions, and the light outside the living room window was the light grey of dawn.
He pushed himself up to a sitting position with a groan and rubbed his eyes. He looked at the clock on his phone: it was half past six in the morning.
He got up and tiptoed to the bedroom door. He listened for sounds, but he couldn't make out anything. Maybe the yami was fast asleep, or maybe—hopefully—he'd jumped off the window and left, never to return.
Holding back another groan, Malik padded to the bathroom. The sight in the mirror was not pretty: smudged eyeliner, tangled hair and a pair of eyes that looked both terrified and furious. He washed his face and brushed his hair, so the sight improved somewhat, but the look in his eyes did not change.
He went back to the living room to wait for the hours to pass. It was a quarter past seven when his phone rang. It was Ryou.
"Hey Ryou," Malik said hoarsely; his voice sounded as rough and raspy as his yami's. He cleared his throat.
"Malik, what's going on? I just saw your text. What do you mean, Mariku is back? What— How—" Ryou was frantic, talking fast. Malik grimaced.
"Well, he's back. In his own body, like Bakura and Atem."
"What?"
"Yeah, I—I found him waiting for me outside my place. Last night. When I came back."
"And you're okay?"
Malik huffed. "Physically? Yeah. He's been... harmless, so far."
"Where is he now?"
"In my room. Sleeping, I think. I locked him in."
"I'm coming over."
"What? Ryou, no. There's nothing you can do—"
"I wanna make sure you're okay."
"I told you, I'm fine. It's just... a lot."
"Doesn't matter. I'm coming over there right now—"
"Don't you have to go to work?"
"I have half an hour to spare. And, honestly, I don't care. This is far more important—"
Malik rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. He didn't have the stamina to argue.
"Okay, fine," he said, resigned. On one hand, this sort of frantic panic was exactly the thing he'd wished to avoid but, on the other hand, he yearned for someone to help him. And Ryou was the only one who could get what he was going through in a deeply intimate level.
He went to the kitchen to make some coffee, all the while listening for any sounds from the bedroom. He was sitting in the living room sipping his coffee when the buzzer sounded. He stood to let Ryou in and waited by the door.
The first thing he noticed when he appeared on the landing, was that Ryou looked as frantic as he'd sounded on the phone, cheeks flushed, white hair flying, scarf half-askew, and eyes wild and searching. He quickly scanned Malik from head to toe as he came to a halt before him, heaving.
"I came as fast as I could," he said in between his panting. He leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath, still examining Malik. "Are you—?"
"Yeah, I'm okay. Come in," Malik beckoned him inside and then lowered his voice. "But be quiet. He's not up yet."
Ryou walked in and loosened his scarf from around his neck. He took a look around, as if expecting to find Mariku there, even though he already knew he was locked in the bedroom.
"Coffee?" Malik asked.
Ryou shook his head. "Not enough time for that. Come on. Tell me everything."
Malik recounted yesterday's events, right down to the conversation in the Crow, and watched Ryou's face shift from shock to surprise, then disbelief.
"An old woman took him in?" he repeated after Malik was done.
Malik nodded. "Crazy, huh?"
"What if he's lying?"
"We'll find out. I'm gonna try to track her down later. I want to speak to her."
"Good luck with that." Ryou checked his phone and winced. "I gotta go already. Will you be okay?"
"I think so," Malik said, because honestly, what else was he supposed to say?
"I'll come by right after work, okay?"
"Sure."
With one last, concerned look at Malik, Ryou tightened his scarf back around his neck and left. Malik was left alone again, standing in the middle of the echoing silence of the apartment, wondering what he was supposed to do next. In the end, he took a deep breath and decided to simply wait.
On Monday morning, the alarm went off while it was still dark outside, as usual. Yuugi had to resist the urge to hit snooze; instead he turned it off and sat up. He yawned widely, rubbing his eyes and casting a bleary look around. His door was half-open, the way he'd left it. The corridor beyond was dark and quiet. Atem was probably still asleep.
Up until now, Yuugi woke up first every morning, got ready as quietly as he could and left for work while Atem was still sleeping. He usually left him a good morning note, or some coffee in the pot. Today, however, was not like the other days. Because today was Atem's first day in his new job.
Yuugi padded out of his bedroom and crept up to Atem's door. It was left ajar as well, so Yuugi pushed it open and walked in. Atem was curled under the covers, the tips of his hair the only thing visible from under the duvet. Yuugi reached out, placing his palm where he supposed Atem's shoulder was, and gave him a gentle shake.
"Other me? Hey, other me? Wake up."
It took a few more shakes for Atem to hum and move. He breathed in deeply and pushed the duvet away from his face, squinting at the half-light around him. "Aibou? What time is it?"
"Time to get up for work," Yuugi said with a small smirk. Atem was so used to sleeping in, this wasn't bound to be easy for him.
As expected, Atem huffed and let his head head fall back onto his pillow. "Five more minutes," he mumbled, the vowels barely discernible.
Yuugi decided he could grant him this small mercy, so he let him doze off and went to make some coffee for both of them. He also set some bread to toast before peeking out of the kitchen and shouting, "Other me! Wake up!"
I'm turning into Grandpa, Yuugi thought, distantly amused.
A couple of minutes later, a bleary-eyed and disheveled Pharaoh walked into the kitchen, dragging his feet and yawning. "Hey, aibou."
"Morning," Yuugi grinned. He wasn't going to say it out loud, but even when he was like this, drowsy and tousled up, clad in baggy old sweatpants and a threadbare sweatshirt, Atem was striking. Yuugi was pretty sure he himself didn't look like this when he woke up. He didn't know what it was with Atem and always looking ravishing; maybe it was some leftover regal trait, a quality he had acquired from his years spent as god on earth. Or maybe Atem was wasting his potential and should actually apply for a modeling job. Or maybe Yuugi was still head over heels thrilled about Atem's return, and still couldn't get over the fact that his other self was there, wearing his old pajamas and sitting at his kitchen table.
He passed Atem a cup of coffee—with a bit of milk, the way Atem liked it—and sat across from him.
The rest of the apartment was still dark, only second-hand illuminated by the kitchen light and the distant city glow. Far away, on the horizon, streaks of pink were breaking across the sky.
Waking up early had never been Yuugi's favorite thing either, but he could see himself changing his mind. If it meant that he'd get to have breakfast with Atem every day, Yuugi would happily set his alarm clock even earlier.
"So. First day at work, huh?" Yuugi said, sipping his coffee.
Atem hummed.
"Nervous?"
The yami gave a shrug. "A bit, I guess."
"I'm sure you'll do great."
"Thanks, aibou." Atem looked up at him and gave Yuugi a small smile, but he looked away quickly, gaze turning to his mug. "I get off work at six. So... Maybe we can do something afterwards?" he asked, mumbling to his cup. If Yuugi didn't know better, he'd say Atem was too shy to look at him in the eye.
"Of course! Got any ideas?"
Atem shrugged again. "Just... hang out? Somewhere?"
"Sure. I'll come by your work to pick you up, okay?"
"You don't have to make such a detour for me—"
"No, no, I really wanna see where you work!"
Atem bit the inside of his lip. "Okay," he murmured at last. He must really be nervous for him to look so sheepish. But it didn't matter. Yuugi would make sure to think of some fun place to go afterwards, to celebrate Atem's first day as a working man.
"Alright, then. I gotta run. See you in the afternoon, other me!" Yuugi said, rising and rushing to get his coat and briefcase.
On the train to work, Yuugi's phone rang.
"Hey, Mom, good morning," he said when he picked up, trying not to let his frown show in his voice. His mother never called so early, especially on a work day.
"Hey Yuugi. Guess who I just met at the farmer's market," his mother said through the phone.
Yuugi adjusted his phone between ear and shoulder to better hang on the train handle. "Who?" he asked, even though he had a bad feeling about this. For his mom to call over this—
"Mrs Mazaki. She said Anzu is back—" Yuugi winced, inwardly thinking Oh no, "—and she said she's living with her? Instead of with you?"
Yuugi bit his lip, despondently looking at the bus ceiling. He hadn't told his mother about the falling out with Anzu, or the imminent divorce or... anything about Anzu, really. And it had been easy to hide, what with Anzu being in America and everything.
It wasn't that he wasn't planning to ever tell his mom. It was just that... it had been a conversation he really hadn't wanted to make. His mother adored Anzu, and had done so ever since Yuugi had been in school. She'd always considered Anzu the best influence out of all of Yuugi's friends, and she'd been over the moon when the two of them had engaged. So, yeah... Yuugi hadn't wanted to break her heart. At least, not until the divorce was definite.
He sighed. "Yeah... I know. There are some things I haven't told you about."
"Yeah, I gathered that much. What's going on?"
He sighed again, deeper this time. "Mom, this really isn't a good time to talk about this—"
"And when is it gonna be a good time? I hardly ever see you—"
"I know, I know, it's just... I'm on the train right now, on my way to work."
"So that means you have time to talk."
Yuugi made a pained grimace. "Well, there's people around—"
"Did you and Anzu have a fight?"
Well, when she put it straightforward like this, how could Yuugi lie? "There has been a fight, yes—"
"And you didn't tell your mother about this?" she seethed, sternly enough to make Yuugi wince again. "I had to learn about this from Mrs Mazaki, as if I'm some stranger!"
"Mom, please—"
"Listen, young man. You'd better make up with Anzu. No matter what it is—"
"Mom, now really isn't the time for this," Yuugi cut across her. And that was another reason why he hadn't said anything to her. He'd been certain that his mother would try and talk him out of the divorce. Up until Atem's return, the divorce really hadn't been his choice to make, so he really hadn't needed the extra pressure—and, after Atem's return... Well. Things had been too complicated to think about involving his mother in this.
"Then call me when you have some time to talk. Or, even better, drop by. I haven't seen you in two months! It's almost as if we live in different cities—"
"I know, I know. I was just... busy."
"Then make some time for your mother!"
"I promise I will," Yuugi said, already dreading that time. Old Mrs Mutou was a force to be reckoned with, especially when she thought she was right about something. Yuugi didn't know when he was actually going to see her, but he knew it was not going to be fun. No conversation involving Anzu was fun these days.
He bid his mother a good day and hung up, heaving a great huff as he did so. Lovely; another thing to worry about. He could already picture the disapproving look she'd pin him with when he told her about the divorce. After all, why wouldn't she disapprove? Her only son, divorced before his thirties... Oh, she'd definitely hammer that point home.
And Yuugi would have to find a really good excuse to explain why he hadn't visited for two months. He couldn't tell her about Atem... Or could he? Maybe it was the time to explain to his mother what that gold pyramid necklace he'd been wearing throughout high school had been about, and why she'd caught him talking to himself so many times...
Was she likely to take better to the divorce if she learned that her son had once hosted the ghost of an ancient Pharaoh? Maybe one shock would cancel out the other. Maybe he should tell her everything about Atem, and even introduce him to her, and then leave while the shock was still fresh and thus, avoid all talk about Anzu—
Or maybe, he should man up and face everything the way Atem had taught him. He couldn't avoid his mother forever. She was right: he should have visited a long time ago.
He got off the train and ran to the entrance of his workplace; it was too short a distance to warrant opening his umbrella, so he just held his briefcase over his head against the light morning drizzle.
"Hello, Mutou!" Haru said from the receptionist's desk.
"Morning, Haru!" Yuugi said, brushing droplets off his briefcase.
"Mr Iwata said he wants to talk to you."
"Oh?"
Another conversation, Yuugi thought. And his day hadn't even properly started yet. It was unusual for his boss to ask to talk to Yuugi this early—especially when there were no deadlines approaching—so Yuugi hurried to ride the elevator to the top floor and knock on his boss's door.
"Hello? Ah, Mutou!" Mr Iwata said when Yuugi walked in, rising to welcome him in.
"Good morning," Yuugi said with a bow.
"Good morning, good morning. Sit!"
At least Mr Iwata seemed to be in a good mood, so this conversation wouldn't be too bad. Yuugi relaxed. He took off his coat, set his briefcase by the chair and sat down across from his boss.
"So!" Mr Iwata clapped his hands once, beaming. "How are things going? When is Mrs Mutou coming back to Domino?"
Yuugi blinked, taken aback by the question. Another one asking about Anzu? What was going on today?
"Actually, she's already back—" he started saying, but his boss cut across him.
"Excellent! You see, I finally got an answer from Mr Goldner! He agreed to meet with us for dinner! It won't be a business meeting, since he's here with his wife on vacation, you get it... But I think we should grab this chance to make a good impression! So I suggested a couples' night out! What do you say? How about you and Mrs Mutou take our guest and his wife out to dinner?"
Mr Iwata was grinning widely at Yuugi, and Yuugi stared back, aghast. "Um..." he said, very eloquently.
"Come on, Mutou! This is our chance! Especially after I found that Hirai has been sweet-talking Goldner, too... We must strike a deal before them!"
"Yeah, I get it. But—"
"No but, Mutou, Goldner already agreed! You wouldn't embarrass me, would you?"
Yuugi closed his mouth. He didn't know what to say. Damn it, he shouldn't have said that Anzu was back, otherwise he could have just claimed that she was still in America and gotten out of it.
Should he admit to his boss that he and Anzu were getting a divorce? Sure, it wasn't settled yet, but... What were his other options?
Perhaps he could talk to Anzu about this... Ask it as a favor. His boss had been trying to get Goldner to agree to meet them for months. Yuugi didn't want to be the one to spoil this.
He tried to picture him and Anzu meeting up and going to dinner, pretending to still be a happily married couple, just to make a good impression to a foreign CEO. He cringed inwardly at the thought. He couldn't imagine himself doing it. Not to mention it might give Anzu the wrong impression, and he didn't want to give her false hopes. Especially not when he still hadn't made up his mind—
His wedding ring was still in the pocket of his jacket. He hadn't thrown it away, but he hadn't put it back on either. He was supposed to talk to Anzu about it a week ago, but he still hadn't come up with the right words for it.
And now this. His boss was the second person to talk to him about Anzu in a day, and it wasn't even noon yet.
Mr Iwata was looking at him with a frankly scary glint in his eyes, and Yuugi swallowed. He couldn't say no. But he couldn't go to this dinner with Anzu, either. So... What was he going to say?
"Well, I can... ask her?" he suggested.
"Oh, come on, Mutou! Don't tell me you have to ask for permission? You are the man of the house!"
Yuugi had to resist the urge to grimace at that comment. He was used to older people saying things like that and, sadly, his boss was one of them.
"Okay. Alright, I'll do it," he said halfheartedly, if only because he couldn't see any way out of it. He would find a way to make it work. He had to, now. His boss had already arranged it with Goldner, after all, and Yuugi was not stupid: he knew what this meant for the company.
Mr Iwata clapped his hands again. "That's my boy! Make sure to dazzle him, alright?"
"Uh... Right," Yuugi said with a weak smile.
He went to his office with sunken spirits. He couldn't shake off the feeling that he'd just agreed to something very foolish.
Well, it was his fault. He was the one that had avoided telling anyone about his divorce: from his mother to his boss and colleagues. On the other hand, who could blame him for not advertising his marriage problems? Especially since nothing was set in stone yet. No papers were signed, no agreements were made... Surely he wasn't supposed to go around telling people about it, right? It was none of their business, after all.
He huffed and dropped onto his chair. It would be much easier if he wasn't planning to take a divorce. He already knew that. Getting back together with Anzu was the easy thing to do on so many levels. It could kick his life back in a known track. Everything would just... click into place. He'd still be the company's and his parents' golden boy, the shining example of what success means, and he would no longer have to avoid conversations or pretend. Hell, they'd even mentioned her in the article they'd written about him in the 30 Under 30 To Watch of People magazine. 'Yuugi Mutou, also known as King of Games, married to ballet dancer Anzu Mazaki, at 29 years old is what every young man starting out in the gaming industry aspires to be.'
He'd disappoint a lot of people, he knew that. But he never wanted to be a shining example, or even have a title. He only ever wanted to play games.
He sounded like a child when he said that, he knew. And he couldn't afford to act like one. He was an adult, with a career and world-wide fame. It was no simple matter.
...Was he making a great mistake? Was getting back with Anzu the right thing to do? For his life, and for him in general...?
He folded his arms on his desk and let his head fall on them. He wished he had the solution, or even something to point him to the right way. Because, as things were, he had no idea what to do.
Mariku opened his eyes. The light outside the window was strong. It was morning. Malik's bed was warm and soft, softer than Grandma Aiko's couch. Mariku realized he'd slept a lot. Well... He had been tired; he hadn't slept for two nights. One because he had been waiting for Malik outside the door, and one because he had been too nervous about coming here. About leaving Grandma Aiko. About meeting Malik.
He pushed the blankets off of himself and got up. He looked around. Malik's room was full of colors and all sorts of items, stuffed in every corner. He remembered what Malik had said last night: very different from the tomb. Very different, indeed. But these walls were full of pictures, too; big pictures and small pictures. Mariku approached the small pictures and saw: Malik with a group of people. Mariku remembered them. The white haired boy he had fought on top of the blimp. The tall blond one who had almost beat him. And. The short kid that had hosted the Pharaoh.
Why was Malik with them? Had they accepted him as their own after Battle City? If that was so. Did that mean they would accept Mariku?
He looked away. He went to the door and tried the handle. It was locked.
Hesitantly, he knocked on the door, twice. At once he heard harried footsteps on the other side. There was the sound of a key turning in the lock and the door opened.
Malik was standing on the other side, still wearing the same clothes as last night and looking... guarded. For a second, he pressed his lips tightly together, looking almost angry, and then he said, "Hey. Good morning."
"Good morning," Mariku replied, because Grandma had already taught him that this was the polite thing to say.
Malik's eyes shifted from Mariku's face to the bedroom behind him. "So... I'm guessing you slept okay."
Mariku nodded. "The bed was soft."
Malik made a weird grimace, as if he'd swallowed something the wrong way. "Good. Glad to hear." He didn't sound glad. "Come on."
Mariku followed Malik to the tiny kitchen. At Malik's prodding, he sat at one of the chairs, the same one he'd chosen last night.
"Do you like coffee?" Malik asked, reaching for a mug.
Mariku shrugged. "I've only tried tea."
"Alright, then." Malik reached for a box of teabags and boiled some water. He plunged a teabag in the mug and pushed it towards Mariku.
"Thank you," Mariku said.
Malik looked as surprised as he had last night, when Mariku had said thank you. Then his mouth tightened again and he made a couple of sandwiches. Same as last night: cheese, tomato, some kind of paste.
They chewed in silence. Malik seemed to not want to look at Mariku, but at the same time he never looked entirely away or turned his back to him. After a while, Malik said, "So... About this Grandma Aiko. You know her phone number?"
Mariku took a piece of paper out of his pocket and pushed it towards Malik. Malik looked surprised again, but he took the piece of paper nonetheless.
"Okay. I think I'll give her a call," he said. He pushed the plate with his half-eaten sandwich away and took out his phone. Then he got to his feet and went to lean against the sink. He tapped his foot rapidly as he dialed the numbers.
Mariku simply sat in his seat and watched as Malik brought the phone to his ear and waited. Suddenly, Malik said in a loud and clear voice, "Hello? Is this Mrs Aiko? Yes, this is Malik Ishtar... Yes, that one." He made a small pause, then glanced at Mariku. "Yes, he is right here. Yes. He's... fine." Another small pause. "I, umm. I wanted to ask you a few things. Thank you. You live in Tokyo, right? Where exactly did you meet Mariku? ...And you invited him in? That's very... thoughtful. And dangerous. Someone you don't know— Aha. Yes, I see. But— Yes, I'm listening." Another pause, a longer one this time. "Oh, that. I... don't really know. I hadn't seen him for a long time. Relative? Um—I guess you could say that. We are related... distantly." He paused again. "I have an idea, but I'll need to look into it. Listen, I'm sorry for interrupting you, but I have so many questions. He lived with you for the past two months? And you—? Aha. Aha. I see." Malik's eyebrows arched, giving him again that look of surprise. "Oh, he did?" Then he frowned, looking troubled. "No, that I can say with certainty. No, he didn't. Like I said, I'll need to... look into it. Yes, I'll let you know. Oh, you want to...? Sure. Sure, he's right here." He lowered the phone and looked at Mariku. "She wants to talk to you."
Malik held the phone out, and Mariku slowly reached out and took it. He brought it to his ear and said, "Hello."
"Mariku!" Grandma Aiko's crackly voice sounded through the speaker. "How are you, dear heart?"
Listening to her voice made the tightness in Mariku's shoulders relax. "Okay," he replied.
"How was the trip? I was worried about you. I expected you to call earlier."
"Yes. Um. It took me a while to... find Malik."
"But you are alright?"
"Yes."
"You didn't have any trouble on the trip?"
"No."
"That young man of yours. He sounds polite. He treat you alright so far?"
Mariku hesitated. "...Yes," he said at last.
"Well, I hope you're taking care of yourself. And that you're eating well."
Mariku looked at the sandwich in front of him. "Yes. Don't worry," he added.
He heard Grandma Aiko huff loudly. "Alright, then. Do call again soon, okay?"
"Okay."
"Put on that young man of yours again. I want to talk to him."
Mariku held out the phone silently. Malik took it and brought it back to his ear. "Hello? Yes. Aha... Alright." Malik's eyes kept turning to Mariku and away, as if he weren't sure if he wanted to look at him or not. "Okay. Um—I will. Yes. Alright, you too. Bye."
Malik lowered the phone and set it on the table in front of him. There was a very long silence. Malik was staring at a spot somewhere between Mariku and the phone, and Mariku was staring at Malik's face, trying to figure out what Grandma Aiko had told him to make him this pensive.
Finally, Malik's gaze shifted upwards to Mariku. He gave him a long, hard look. "She sounds fierce."
Mariku nodded. "Stern, sometimes."
"Good-hearted, too," Malik added.
Mariku nodded again.
"So. I guess you were telling the truth about her, then."
Mariku didn't know what to reply to that. Had Malik thought Mariku was lying? Why would he do that?
Malik huffed and ran his hand through his hair. "I just. I don't see how you managed to live with her for two months. It's—" He shook his head. "That doesn't mean I trust you, though. I hope that's clear."
Mariku didn't know what to answer. He finished his sandwich.
Malik didn't know what to think. He had thought the phone call to Mrs Aiko would clear things up but, instead, it made everything seem even more insane. Because she had indeed given shelter to Mariku, and she had lived with him for two whole months. No matter which way he looked at it, he couldn't figure out how that had happened. It wasn't Mrs Aiko's kindness and generosity that he doubted; it was Mariku's. He couldn't for the life of him picture Mariku living with an old lady and her dog. He simply couldn't.
And, as if to make everything even more absurd, Mariku kept being quiet and well-behaved throughout the day. No trace of evil glare, twisted smile, or veins popping. He mostly sat on the couch, either staring at the room around him or—unfortunately—staring at Malik. Malik himself didn't talk much; he sat on his yellow armchair, tapping one foot wildly, thinking. Mostly, his thoughts consisted of various iterations of What am I gonna do? and picturing the way Ishizu and Rishid would react when they learned about this. It wasn't pleasant thinking—not by a long shot—but it was all he was capable of.
Around noon, his phone rang. It was Bakura. Malik sent it straight to voicemail.
"How was it? Coming back to life?" he asked then, giving Mariku a calculating glare.
Mariku thought about it. "Scary," he said at last. "I couldn't breathe. I didn't know where I was. Last thing I remembered was you... on the blimp. Then... darkness."
"You don't remember anything else? Something like... I don't know. The afterlife? Heaven? Hell? Anything?"
Mariku frowned. "I remember... fear."
"Fear?"
Mariku nodded.
When asked about it, Bakura and Atem had said they remembered a peaceful feeling. Serenity. Not Mariku, though. It was... interesting. He must not have ended up at the same afterlife as the other yamis. Which made sense, technically, but... It also made things even more perplexing.
He shouldn't be back, Malik thought with a pang of anger. It was obvious he wasn't the same as the other yamis, so why—?
He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. Inhale, exhale. He shouldn't let himself get angry—
Then again, what did it matter? Mariku was back either way. Malik remaining calm had made no fucking difference, in the end. So, fuck it. He'd get mad, and angry, and he'd seethe and let his blood boil. God knew he'd held that back long enough.
He got up and started pacing around the apartment. His hands shook. He had to swallow the urge to grab Mariku by the neck and scream in his face, ask him why he was back.
He could get Ryou a bit better now. He could get it.
What am I gonna do? he thought again. His anger fizzled out in despair. Mariku was watching him.
"You know why I'm back... Don't you?" Mariku asked.
Malik stopped his pacing, looking away from his yami, towards the window. He couldn't tell him about the Spellbook. He couldn't because—
Because what? What could Mariku do with that knowledge? Was Malik being unreasonable? Was he just irrationally suspicious, just the way he'd accused Ryou of being with Bakura?
He rubbed his face with his palms. He guessed he owed Ryou an apology. He shouldn't have acted all high and mighty, like a wise old sage, when he hadn't known shit about the situation.
"Fuck..." he whispered, pressing his fingertips onto his eyes.
Mariku was still waiting for an answer, but Malik couldn't bring himself to say it. Irrational or not, he couldn't up and lay everything out, as if this wasn't his evil, twisted, malicious other half they were talking about.
In the end, he made a decision. He'd assess Mariku for a while more, maybe talk to Mrs Aiko again—this time without his yami in the room. And then, when he made sure that Mariku wasn't faking ignorance or innocence, he'd tell him about the Spellbook and Blackwood.
He turned to look at his yami. "I will tell you... But not yet."
Mariku's face fell a bit. "Did you... create me again?"
"No!" Malik said sharply. "No, I had nothing to do with it!"
"Then how—?"
"I told you. I won't reveal anything yet. First... I need to know if I can trust you." Even saying it felt weird. He didn't think he'd ever trust Mariku.
After a small pause, Mariku asked, "Do you still have the Rod?"
"No."
"Who has it?"
Malik shot him a sharp look. "It's in Egypt. In the museum. And it no longer has any powers, so don't get any weird ideas."
Mariku's face fell even more. "Not why I'm asking."
"Then why the sudden interest?"
Mariku shrugged. "Just curious." After a bit of thought, he said, "I saw pictures. In your room. You are friends with the Pharaoh's vessel?'
"His name is Yuugi," Malik said. "And yes, we're friends. Same with the rest of the gang."
"And the Pharaoh?"
Malik hesitated. He kept forgetting that Mariku didn't know a thing about what happened after Battle City. He didn't know about the Ceremonial Duel or the following eleven years. The question was... Should Malik tell him?
In the end he decided that this was relatively harmless knowledge, so he said, "The Pharaoh was freed from the Puzzle, shortly after Battle City. He went to the afterlife."
Mariku's eyebrows arched. "Oh."
"And then he came back. Two months ago. Along with you... and Bakura."
Mariku gaped at him for a while. "The Pharaoh? And the thief? They are here?"
"Yes."
Mariku frowned, a troubled expression that made his eyes look dark. "And do they... have their own bodies? Like me?"
Malik nodded gravely.
"Huh." Mariku sat back onto the cushions, his gaze lost somewhere far away. Malik stared at him for a while, marveling at how... human he seemed, sitting like that on the couch, wearing a cable knit sweater—probably courtesy of Mrs Aiko—and a pair of jeans. He seemed like an ordinary person—as ordinary as it got, with lilac eyes like that and hair wild and untamed. "And where are they?" he asked at last.
"Atem—the Pharaoh—is with Yuugi. And Bakura... He lives somewhere in the city."
"Do they know why they're back?"
This made Malik hesitate again. "Um... More or less. We're... looking into it."
"So you don't know?"
Malik heaved a tired sigh. "I told you, we have... a suspicion. But I won't say more, so stop asking."
They sank back into silence, with Mariku looking more troubled than before. And, speaking of Bakura, Malik's phone rang again. He dismissed the call once more. A few minutes later a text came.
From: Bakura, 13:16
Where are you? I need to talk to you
Malik ignored it. He had worse problems than Bakura moaning about Ryou and the shit he did. He got up with a huff and started pacing again, running his hands through his hair. He could feel a headache building somewhere in his skull.
He glanced at Mariku, who was watching him carefully, and whispered, "What am I gonna do with you?"
His yami probably heard him, but he didn't reply. Not that he'd take any of his suggestions, even if he did.
There was also the pressing matter of going to work. Malik had a shift at the Crow that night, and he couldn't call in sick. He'd already been away for longer than his boss had agreed to, and the other barmen must have stretched themselves thin to cover for him. Plus, even if he called in sick today, the problem would remain the following day, and the one after that, and the one after. He couldn't stop going to work altogether just to sit here and keep an eye on Mariku. He had to make this work somehow, and he had less than seven hours to find a solution.
Maybe he could leave Ryou here with Mariku, to keep watch over—No. No, he couldn't do that. If something happened to Ryou, Malik would never forgive himself. Maybe he should call Bakura after all and ask him. The problem was, Malik wouldn't earn any peace of mind that way. On the contrary, he'd keep worrying whether the yamis wiped each other out or whether they demolished the house or something. He couldn't trust those two to sit together peacefully. Hell, he couldn't trust Bakura to sit peacefully with anyone: the man had a knack for kindling fires where none existed.
In the end, he paused his pacing, looked at Mariku and announced the only solution he could think of.
"Alright, listen. Tonight, I have to go to work, and you'll come with me."
"To that bar we went to yesterday?"
"Yes. You'll come with me and sit where I can see you and you won't speak, move, or cause trouble in any way. Got it?"
The yami's face was serious, but he nodded. "Okay."
Malik huffed and resumed his pacing, not feeling reassured at all. People would ask questions. Malik and Mariku looked a lot alike, and what was he going to say to explain that?
"If anyone asks, you and I are... cousins. Okay?" he said.
Mariku nodded again.
Lunch time came and went, and Malik wasn't feeling hungry at all. He made something quick for Mariku because, in the back of his head, he'd kept the information about the cookies and the effect they'd had on the yami, but he only made a cup of tea for himself. They sat at the kitchen table, Mariku chewing on his rice and vegetables and Malik sipping at his tea, and they didn't speak at all.
Come afternoon, Malik could feel himself going crazy. Mariku's constant staring didn't help, so he asked him, "Do you know how to read?"
Mariku, if anything, seemed affronted. "Hieroglyphs, hieratic, Arabic and Japanese. Same as you."
"Right." Malik grabbed a random magazine and shoved it under the yami's nose. "Here. To pass the time."
Mariku turned a few pages. "This is about motorcycles."
"Yes."
With a thoughtful hum, the yami sank back onto the cushions and started reading.
Some time after five, Malik's phone rang again. This time it was Ryou.
"I just got off work. I'm coming over, okay?" Ryou panted in the phone. In the background, Malik could hear the sound of traffic.
Malik agreed and, after assuring him that he was alright, he hung up. Then, because he knew Ryou, he set out to make a cup of coffee for him; black, no sugar.
Ryou arrived shortly after; Malik buzzed him in and waited for him, holding the door open and nervously moving his weight from foot to foot. He heard Ryou breathing heavily as he ran up the stairs, and then Ryou himself came into view, panting.
"Hey," Malik said without cracking a smile.
"Hey," Ryou said breathlessly, stopping at the threshold and leaning against the doorframe to catch his breath. He scanned Malik up and down. "Where...?" Then his gaze moved over Malik's shoulder, to the living room behind him. He spotted Mariku and visibly froze. For a few awkward seconds he did nothing, then he smiled, rather stiffly, and said, "Umm... Hello."
Mariku lifted a hand and gave a small wave. "Hello."
Malik, who was watching the exchange, scowled a bit. "Come in," he murmured, gesturing at Ryou and closing the door behind him.
Ryou took a couple of steps in and stood there, wrapped in his thick scarf and jacket. He made no move to take them off. Once or twice, he glanced towards Mariku uncertainly, then he leaned closer to Malik and whispered, "Should I... move closer?"
Malik sighed. "Yeah, come on." He led the way to the living room and sat in his armchair, across from his yami.
Ryou, still looking uncertain and awkward, sat cross-legged on the floor next to Malik's armchair. For a while, nobody spoke, until Ryou tried to smile again and said, "Um, hi."
"You already said that," Mariku said, sounding amused.
"Right." Ryou took a deep breath. "You must be Mariku."
"Yes."
"I don't know if you remember who I am—"
"I remember you," Mariku replied. "You are the thief's vessel."
Ryou, who was already tense, stiffened even more; even from his angle, Malik could see the smile dropping off his face and being replaced with a scowl. "Was," he said. "Was his vessel."
"Right," Mariku said, looking at Ryou with interest. "Now the thief has his own body, right? Like me."
Ryou turned to Malik. "How much does he know?"
"Not much," Malik replied. "I told him about Bakura and Atem, and that's about it."
Ryou turned back to Mariku. After a small hesitation, he asked him about his return: how much he remembered, what he knew. Mariku told him what he had already said to Malik. After he was done, Ryou turned back to Malik.
"You spoke to this... Mrs Aiko?"
Malik nodded gruffly. Then he got to his feet. "Come with me," he murmured to Ryou. He pierced Mariku with a fierce glare and said, "You stay where you are."
The yami did not reply, but he didn't look pleased. Malik didn't care.
He went to the kitchen with Ryou in tow. Once they were both inside, he closed the door almost entirely, leaving open a crack from which to monitor Mariku.
"Well," Ryou started in a low voice. "He looks... Docile. He's not at all like how you'd described him."
"I know," Malik replied. "And I don't trust that. I have no idea what's going on in that head of his."
"He looks just as confused."
"Bakura did too, when he was back. Did you trust him?" Malik shot at him. Ryou remained silent.
"Still," Ryou said after a while, "you didn't kick him out yet, so that must mean you see something—"
"I just don't trust him enough to unleash him onto the world!"
"You spoke to that old lady?"
"I did. She confirmed Mariku's story to a T. And, apparently, she's worried about him."
"Worried? Why?"
"She kept asking me if he's alright, if he's eating well, and she gave me instructions on how to handle him if he gets agitated."
"Agitated?"
Malik nodded. "She told me that he sometimes finds it hard to handle his emotions. Told me to not overwhelm him." He let out a sharp, cold laugh. "She told me to not overwhelm him! This is insane," he finished, running a hand through his hair. He'd done that gesture so many times today already that soon his hair would start looking like Mariku's. At the thought, he patted down a couple of tufts.
"Okay," Ryou said. "How's that going so far?"
"Well, he doesn't look overwhelmed or anything. I'm the one who's going crazy."
Ryou gave him an understanding look. "I know better than to tell you to calm down, so I won't say it. But do try to keep your head. You're gonna need it."
"I know, I know. I just—" He huffed heavily. His headache had turned into a fierce pounding. "I am so angry. And I don't know who to take it out on."
"Have you told Ishizu and Rishid?"
"No. And, honestly, I don't want to. I can't deal with them worrying on top of everything else. I just—can't."
Ryou remained silent at that, biting his lip. After a small pause, he said, "Are we gonna tell the guys?"
Malik leaned against the wall. He knocked his head against it a bit harder than was necessary, hoping to overtake his headache. "I don't know. We probably should."
"Have you told...?" Ryou trailed off. From the sour look on his face, Malik understood that he wanted to ask about Bakura.
"No, I haven't. And he keeps calling me. I don't know what the fuck happened with you two—"
"Well," Ryou started, scowling immediately, "he—"
"And I don't care," Malik cut across him. "I'm sorry, but I can't worry about that too right now."
"Yeah. Yeah, I get it."
"I'll tell everyone, I guess, sooner or later. I just—I need—" He faltered. He didn't know what he needed. Time? Would time make this easier? He doubted it. Time hadn't made it any easier for Ryou, either.
"I get it," Ryou said quietly, even though Malik had never finished his sentence.
Malik huffed heavily. "I know you do." They looked at each other. "How did we get here, huh?" Malik murmured. "How did... everything—" he emphasized the word by bumping his head back against the wall again, in spite of Ryou's alarmed gaze—"turn into such a fucking mess?"
"I don't know. But we'll make it through. We will." The conviction in Ryou's voice almost made Malik believe him.
He sighed. "I don't know about it, Ryou. I thought I'd never have to see him again."
"I know. Me too," Ryou said, and Malik knew he was once again speaking about his own yami.
"I just wanna find whoever is responsible for this and throttle him. Because, damn it, I wasn't the one responsible this time! I wasn't!"
"I know."
Silence fell between them again. Malik kept his ears open for any sounds from the living room, but Mariku was quiet. He cracked the door open a little bit more and glanced outside: Mariku was standing with his back to them, looking out of the window.
"For now," Malik murmured, still staring at the back of his yami, "I have to somehow make it through until we figure out a solution."
Ryou left Malik's apartment feeling perturbed and very, very worried. Malik had said that he'd take his yami to work that night, and Ryou really didn't know if that was a good idea. On the other hand, it wasn't like he could think of any other solution, so he had kept his mouth shut.
Seeing Mariku from up close was... surreal. Back during Battle City, Ryou hadn't seen him once—and he had Bakura to thank for that. He'd been out of it through the entirety of the shit that had gone down. He'd heard the stories afterwards, but... Seeing him in the flesh was something else. Mostly because he didn't look at all like how Ryou had imagined him. In his head, he'd painted the image of a raving madman, wild-eyed and dangerous, grasping at every chance for violence with malicious delight. At least, that was how Malik had described him.
However, the person he'd met in Malik's living room wasn't like that at all. He was quiet, almost timid. And... It was funny, but he both looked a lot like Malik and nothing like him at the same time. His hair was a lot wilder, unlike Malik's, who always took such good care of his appearance. And, oddly enough, he looked... bulkier than Malik; he seemed to take up more space, even though technically they had the same body. It was strange. And it made Ryou wonder if that was how other people saw him and Bakura.
Bakura. Good god. For five wonderful minutes, he'd forgotten about him.
Bakura hadn't shown his face for the past two days. Maybe he'd finally decided to pay heed to Ryou's words and stay away from him. Which was a wise choice, or else Ryou might get violent.
He wanted to stop thinking about what had happened two days ago, but he just couldn't. He kept seeing Bakura, kneeling among his letters, looking up at Ryou and saying his name. His name. Ryou couldn't stop hearing his voice.
He picked up his pace, quickly marching across streets. A dull fear started throbbing inside his chest, slowly turning into panic, and he ran the rest of the way to his apartment building. He wanted to check on the rest of the letters; had to make sure Bakura hadn't broken in again to finish what he started. Ryou had changed the hiding place since the closet had been compromised, but Bakura might have figured it out and—
He couldn't allow this to happen again. Thinking about what Bakura had read made Ryou want to crawl inside the earth and die; he wouldn't be able to bear it if Bakura read even more.
The elevator in his apartment building in service, for once, so Ryou got in and smashed the fifth floor button. Then he leaned against the elevator mirror, clutching his side and panting heavily. Damn his smoker lungs.
He got inside his apartment and quickly made for the laundry basket. He grabbed the sweaters that rested on top, throwing them to the side, his heart beating in his throat, and took a look inside the basket. Then he let a sigh deflate him and relaxed.
The boxes were still there, untouched. Bakura hadn't tried to break in again. Good. It was good. All was well.
But this had to stop. He couldn't keep panicking over these letters every time he left the house.
He shouldn't have kept them in the first place. He should have destroyed them years ago. What good did keeping them do? It was a bad habit. A stupid habit. He should never have—
Sure, he had never thought someone might read them. Least of all Bakura. He'd never thought he'd see him again—and that had been why he'd written all these things in his letters. About missing him. About not being able to bear his absence. And who knew what else. Damn; if past Ryou had only known how things would turn out...
Would it have been easier, had Ryou known that Bakura would return? All those years he spent trying to find his footing and come to terms with the void inside him... Would they have been more manageable? All the things he went through—?
Wondering about it made everything hurt all over again. It made those years feel pointless. All those struggles... What had they been for?
Damn it. Damn it. He wasn't going to cry again. It was bad enough that he cried in front of Bakura; he refused to shed more tears. Enough was enough.
He pressed his fists into his eyes, gritting his teeth. When he felt there was no longer the danger of tears, he lowered his hands and looked at the laundry basket.
Yes. He should do it now. This couldn't go on. And, honestly, the risk wasn't worth it.
He took the boxes of letters out of the laundry basket and took them to the bathroom. There were so many he had to make two trips, stacking them and carrying them carefully. Once he made sure he'd gotten everything, he started emptying them in the tub. Box after box, he emptied their contents, making a huge heap of letters. Gosh, he'd written so many. Seeing them pile up that that, his heart clenched. So many memories. All his feelings, written down in ink, now filling his tub. Endless days, weeks, years... These letters went so far back. He'd kept everything, from the very first letters he'd written to Amane after her death.
He hesitated, still holding a half-full box in his hands. Did he really want to destroy them...? All because of Bakura? These letters held the story of his life. The true story; the face he'd never shown to anyone else.
He put the box down. He didn't know what to do.
He sat on the floor by his tub. He grabbed a random letter from the heap with one shaking hand and unfolded it.
Dear Amane,
Ryou let it drop and grabbed another one. Then another one, until he finally found what he was looking for: a letter addressed to Bakura.
Spirit,
I wish I could talk to you. There are so many things I would say.
Sometimes I feel like you're still here. I can almost feel you hover next to me, and I keep expecting to hear your voice. Sometimes it all feels like a lie. I'll wake up, and everything will be the way it was before. That's what it feels like, sometimes.
But I never wake up. This keeps going. Every day is one more day, and I don't wake up from this. I'll never wake up, will I?
It will keep going. It feels damn impossible, and yet here we are.
Each new day feels like it'll open its jaws and swallow me whole. I'm hovering. I don't know what feels more real, me or the memory of you. You're still fading me out, even now. Still overpowering me. I'm fading out, and I can't even stop it. I'm not sure I know how to anymore.
I wish that some day I'll wake up and this will have stopped.
Ryou let the letter drop in the tub, feeling his chest ache as if constricted. God. God, he remembered writing this; he remembered feeling like this. If he were honest, he'd never stopped feeling like this.
He was breathing faster now, and his hands were shaking. He lit a cigarette, trying to calm himself down.
No. No, he couldn't allow these letters to exist. They'd already done enough harm.
It hurt. But it had to be done. And Amane would understand. She of all people... She would understand. He had to do this. And maybe, by doing it, he would exorcise these feelings. This past Ryou. Maybe...
He told Bakura that this stupid little Ryou no longer existed. It was time to make that a reality.
He stood and grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the cabinet above the sink. He unscrewed the cap and poured all of its contents over the letters, watching it soak the paper. Once he was done and the bottle was empty, he took out his lighter again and, without allowing himself to think it over, he took one letter and set fire to one of its corners. He watched the flame eat it, slowly turning it to ash. When it was burned halfway, he dropped it in the tub.
One by one, the letters caught fire, until the tub held one big heap of flaming paper. Ryou stood and watched, unmoving, his cigarette on his lips, and bid them goodbye.
Atem picked up the last book off the floor—a huge tome titled Egypt and its Monuments—and placed it on the shelf. Then he took a step back and admired his work.
He had started from the ancient Egyptian section, because of course he had. After a few hours' work, the floor was clean of books, the bookshelves were full, and everything was in alphabetical order. Sure, it was just one bookcase of the many that needed arranging, but it was satisfying to look at. All the book spines were aligned, their titles perfectly visible and free of dust. It was a job well done.
"Mr Sakamoto!" Atem called. "I'm done."
From the depths of the shop came the shuffling sound of steps, and a minute later the stooped figure of Mr Sakamoto came into view. He came to stand next to Atem, pushing his glasses further up his nose to inspect the bookcase. "Hm. Not bad, old man."
Atem grinned. "I arranged them in alphabetical order. The ones with no title are all on the bottom shelf. The papyri and scrolls are at the bottom right corner."
Mr Sakamoto nodded. "Impressive."
"Should I get started with the next bookcase?" Atem asked, eyeing the stacks of books that littered the rest of the shop's floor.
"Nah, I think that's enough for your first day. Come with me."
Atem followed Mr Sakamoto to the back of the shop, where the record player was emitting the slow, smooth sound of a saxophone. Next to it stood a desk full of papers, more old books, a couple of mugs and magnifying glasses of all sizes.
Mr Sakamoto pulled up a rickety-looking wooden chair. "Here, sit," he said, gesturing to it. Then he moved a stack of papers, clearing a bit of space on the desk.
Atem sat down, watching the old man as he opened a trunk and bent over to rummage into it. A few seconds later, Mr Sakamoto straightened himself, holding a small box in his hands. He placed it on the desk and pulled up a chair for himself.
"Feeling up for a game?" he asked in his creaky old voice, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. He opened the box and pulled out an unmistakable Senet board. It was much different than the one that was on display in the front of the shop: this one was well-kept, made of dark red wood and shiny light blue squares. Mr Sakamoto noticed Atem eyeing it, and he ran a hand over the board, lightly touching the thirty squares. "Mahogany and faience. Not for sale. Isn't she a beauty?"
"It is very well-made," Atem agreed.
Mr Sakamoto picked up a small velvet pouch and started pulling out light blue game pieces, placing them on the side of the board one by one. "So, what do you say? Shall we play a game?"
Atem would very much love to, but his gaze flitted to the rest of the shop, to all the stacks of books waiting for him to sort them out. There was so much to do. And certainly Mr Sakamoto wasn't paying him to play games. Maybe this was a test.
"Shouldn't I get back to—?"
Mr Sakamoto waved a hand. "Relax. It's not like my customers aren't used to the mess. Come on. I've been waiting to break this beauty in for years."
It sounded honest enough, so Atem smirked, feeling his gamer instincts shifting into gear. "Alright, then." He pulled his chair closer to the table.
"Cones or spools?"
"Cones." He had always had the cones in the past, because Mahad had loved having the spools and Atem hadn't been able to say no to him.
Mr Sakamoto took four throw sticks out of the pouch. Then he paused. "The younger one goes first," he said and smirked at Atem. "How old are you feeling today?"
Atem chuckled. "I'll go first."
Mr Sakamoto passed him the throw sticks and they started playing.
Mr Sakamoto proved to be a good opponent. He knew the rules of the game well, and Atem quickly found himself absorbed by the game. They hadn't needed to talk much—or, at least, not until one of Atem's cones reached the House of Water.
Mr Sakamoto eyed him and, when Atem didn't make a move, he said, "You're supposed to move your cone back to the House of Rebirth."
"What?" Atem said, frowning at the board. "Why?"
"That's how the House of Water works."
"No, it doesn't."
"Of course it does. If you land on the House of Water, you have to move your piece back to the—"
But Atem was shaking his head. "No, that's not right. The House of Water allows you to exit the board on the next turn, as long as you toss a four, and if you don't, then you move your piece back to the House of Rebirth."
"Says who?"
"Well—" Atem hesitated. "That's just how the rules are."
Mr Sakamoto chuckled quietly. "Ah, but it's generally agreed upon that the House of Water sends you back to the House of Rebirth."
"Agreed by whom?"
"Egyptologists."
"Well, they've got it wrong."
"How do you know?"
Atem opened his mouth to reply and closed it again. He had known the rules of Senet since before he'd learned to read or write; he'd grew up playing with Mahad and Shimon. It had been one of his favorite games, so yes, he'd wager he knew the rules well. The correct rules. Because, whatever these Egyptologists had agreed upon, was obviously wrong.
But he couldn't say that to Mr. Sakamoto—not unless he wanted to risk sounding like a lunatic. So, he simply said, "Trust me. I know the rules."
Mr Sakamoto gave a good-hearted laugh. "Ah, that's where we disagree."
"The House Of Water sends you back only if you don't manage to get your piece out of the board in the next turn, and if you land on the House of Ra you form a blockade that can only be bypassed if you—"
"No, no, the House of Ra simply allows you to toss again—"
"Toss again? No, you only toss again if you land on the House of Happiness—"
"No, you toss again on the House of Three Truths, the House of Ra and—"
"No, no, no, no," Atem shook his head. "That's not right—"
"That's how everyone plays the game!"
"Well, it's wrong—"
Their banter was interrupted by the sound of the bell and the front door creaking. Both men's heads snapped up; Atem was already halfway off his chair and ready to welcome the customer, when the newcomer emerged from behind a bookcase.
It was Yuugi, his hair up in a ponytail, half his face hidden in a thick scarf and his long grey coat flapping around his feet.
Atem's face split in a grin. "Yuugi!"
Yuugi unwrapped his scarf from around his face and smiled at Atem. "Hey, other me! How is it going?" Mr Sakamoto shuffled close and stood next to Atem, eyeing Yuugi from over his glasses. Yuugi held out a gloved hand to him. "Hello, sir. I'm Yuugi Mutou. I'm Atem's... cousin."
Mr Sakamoto shook Yuugi's hand, still examining him in a rather unsubtle way. "Yuugi Mutou... That sounds familiar."
"He's a well-known game designer," Atem said, feeling pride swell in him.
"Ah, right, right..." Mr Sakamoto murmured, nodding.
Yuugi seemed a bit flustered. "Yeah..." He said with an awkward chuckle. Then his eyes moved to the board on the desk behind them. "Oh! You've been playing Senet?"
"Well, I'll be damned. Another youngster who knows of Senet!" Mr Sakamoto said.
Yuugi and Atem exchanged a glance, smirking to each other. "Yeah, long story," Yuugi said.
"Is this, by any chance, the one who got you that lovely scarab bracelet?" Mr Sakamoto turned to Atem.
"Uh—yes," Atem said.
"I thought so. Come on, then! Let us finish this game. I hope your cousin won't mind watching for a while."
Yuugi and Atem looked at each other again, and Yuugi looked like he wanted to laugh. "No, I don't mind," he said, taking off his gloves and coat.
"Do you also know the rules, young man?" Mr Sakamoto asked, pining Yuugi with his gaze as he sat down in front of the board.
This time, Yuugi's smirk turned sly. "Whose rules, Atem's or the rest of the world's?"
"Aha!" Mr Sakamoto cried.
"Yuugi..." Atem mumbled, feeling betrayed. "You know my rules are the correct ones—"
"We've been having a bit of a dispute over it," Mr Sakamoto said.
"Fine, fine," Atem said, taking his seat too. "I'll play by your rules. I don't mind." He bet he could win in Senet with whatever rules, after all—especially now that Yuugi was watching.
And win he did, after ten minutes and a couple of lucky tosses. With Yuugi cheering him on, winning any game was a piece of cake for Atem.
"Ah. Better luck next time," Mr Sakamoto said, shrugging.
Atem smirked, refraining from mentioning that he rarely, of ever, lost in Senet. It wasn't just a matter of luck, after all; it was about moving the right piece at the right time.
"Alright, so. Ready to go?" Yuugi asked.
Atem looked at the dusty clock that hung on the wall. It was well past six. "Mr Sakamoto, do you need anything else from me?" he asked.
His boss shook his head. "Nah. See you tomorrow, old man."
Atem put on his scarf and coat and followed Yuugi out of the shop. It was dark outside, and a light rain was falling over the streets, thin and soft, making everything glitter. As Atem closed the creaky door of the shop behind him, Yuugi turned to him with an intrigued smile. "He calls you 'old man'?"
Atem chuckled under his breath. "Yeah. It's because of a thing I said when he asked me how old I am."
"What thing?"
Atem told him the story as they walked down the street. Yuugi gave an amused laugh and opened his umbrella, then gestured at Atem to huddle closer. Atem happily obeyed, because it wasn't as if he'd pass the chance to be closer to Yuugi. They walked side to side, so close they might as well have linked arms, strolling slowly as the rain pattered gently over their heads.
"He seems nice," Yuugi said.
"Mr Sakamoto? Yeah, he's... interesting. He has such extensive knowledge. All I need to do is ask and he's off, talking about history."
"And he likes games," Yuugi added.
"And he likes games," Atem confirmed.
"So, your first day went well?"
"Yeah, I suppose. We had no customers today, so I simply tidied up the bookcases. You know... Arranged the bookshelves. That sort of stuff."
"Aha. I see." Yuugi was smiling, but something in his eyes was distant, as if his mind was half-way elsewhere. Or so Atem thought. He couldn't observe Yuugi closely from this angle, and not while they were walking huddled under the umbrella.
"Where are we going?" Atem asked then, because he certainly wasn't leading them anywhere. If anything, Yuugi had taken the lead, subtly guiding Atem.
Yuugi shrugged. "I thought we'd go grab some coffee. What do you say?"
"Whatever you want, aibou."
Yuugi flashed him a smile, but it was gone quickly. Still, it made something flutter in Atem's stomach.
His first day at work had been good enough, and Mr Sakamoto had told him a bunch of interesting stories about eras Atem hadn't known about, but he was glad that this was over and he got to be with Yuugi now.
Yuugi took them to a quaint little coffee shop downtown, a tiny place with just a couple of tables and a bar that overlooked the sidewalk. They stood under the awning to give their orders and waited, observing the passers-by and the rain, their breaths making small wisps of fog.
Or, at least, Yuugi observed the rain. Atem was observing Yuugi. Someone else might not discern it, but there was the slightest hint of a frown on Yuugi's face, and he was silent as his gaze roamed over the street.
"Is something wrong, aibou?"
Yuugi turned to him and smiled faintly. "You can tell, huh?"
Atem returned the smile. "I know you."
"Inside and out," Yuugi said with a chuckle. Then the mirth was wiped off his face again.
"...So? What is it?" Atem prompted softly.
"Well... My mom called me this morning."
"Oh. Bad news?"
"Um, not exactly," Yuugi said with a deep sigh. "She met Anzu's mom and she told her that Anzu's no longer living with me, and she asked why—"
"Aibou," Atem started, his voice stern. "You haven't told your parents about Anzu?"
Yuugi looked guilty. "Well, I didn't want to upset them before things were... definite."
"So, what did you tell her?"
The barista gave them their orders: double cappuccinos with caramel syrup, both in tall cups with a thick paper stripe wrapped around them. Clutching their drinks, they opened their umbrella and started walking again.
"I told her we had a fight," Yuugi said after taking a sip. "And then she tried to make me change my mind and get back with her."
Something heavy settled in Atem's gut. After the talk he'd had with Anzu and after the talk he'd had with Yuugi, he really doubted that Yuugi should be with her. After clearing his throat, Atem said, "And what did you say to her?"
"Nothing? I couldn't really talk. I was on the train to work." He huffed, his breath forming a long foggy stream. "And then, my boss called me to his office. And he'd told me he'd already arranged a super important dinner for Anzu and me, and basically I couldn't say no."
"What—A dinner?"
"Yes, with a CEO from a foreign company and his wife."
"And you're going to go?"
"I told you, I couldn't say no." And then Yuugi was off explaining how important that CEO was, how their company wished to collaborate with them, how it all rested on Yuugi's shoulders and this dinner.
"So... Are you gonna ask Anzu?" Atem asked.
"I don't know. I don't know what I should do." Then Yuugi stopped, and Atem came to a halt next to him, watching the frown crumpling Yuugi's brows. "I've been thinking whether breaking up with Anzu is a good idea or not," Yuugi said. He wasn't looking at Atem when he said it. He wasn't looking at anything; his gaze was lost somewhere along the sidewalk as he spoke.
"...Oh," Atem said, and it sounded a lot more breathless than he wanted it to.
That was why Yuugi was so troubled. And Atem had to admit... He didn't like it. He didn't like it one bit. Anzu had been his friend, but she had made Yuugi miserable. Atem couldn't just stand by and allow that to happen again.
"I don't know, Atem," Yuugi went on. "I'm at a loss. I don't know what's the right thing to do."
"What do you feel is the right thing to do?" Atem asked, hearing his anxiousness in his voice and hoping Yuugi didn't hear it too.
But Yuugi shook his head. "It's not simple. I mean, if you take everything into account—"
"What's everything?"
"My career. My parents. And—society in general I guess. I'm supposed to be a successful, world-class game designer," Yuugi said, sounding despondent.
"And you will continue being a world-class game designer," Atem pointed out.
"Yeah, but—" Yuugi said, gesturing with his coffee cup; he started walking again, and Atem followed. "Everyone has this picture of what success is. And—me too, I guess. A divorce just... isn't compatible with that."
"Why does it matter what people think? Or what your mother thinks?"
Yuugi smiled at him: a soft, knowing thing. "Come on, Atem," he said quietly, and something in the way he said his name made Atem shudder. "You know how it is to have people looking up to you. To have people expecting certain things from you."
Atem did not speak, but yes, he knew. He knew exactly how that felt. He knew just how crushing that pressure could be at times, just like he knew it wasn't something he wanted for Yuugi. Yuugi shouldn't have to carry such a weight.
Yuugi probably read it in his face, because he turned his gaze back to the street and said, "I know you know."
"Yes, but it isn't a good situation to be in. So, if you can break free from it—"
"Did you break free easily? Or at all?"
It was Atem's turn to frown. Had he broken free from the title of the king? From the expectations? From feeling that he had the responsibility of the whole world on his shoulders?
Well, he was doing it, slowly. He had gotten a job, like a regular human being, and he was learning how it felt to do things for himself. He wasn't good at it yet, but he was trying. And he'd already tasted how freeing that could feel.
"All I'm saying is..." Yuugi went on, "it makes things complicated."
"Yes, but you've always followed your heart. And it's never led you astray," Atem said. He looked at Yuugi's profile, smiling fondly at it even as his heart started beating nervously. "What does your heart tell you now?"
Yuugi took a minute to think about it, and Atem watched, feeling his nervousness grow. Part of him fervently hoped that Yuugi would choose what was best for him—which meant, breaking up with Anzu.
Because of course that was the best thing for Yuugi. Atem was certain. There was no question of it... right?
"I don't know, Atem," Yuugi sighed. "Following my heart seemed simpler in the past."
"Then, what do you want?"
Yuugi let out another unhappy chuckle. "I know what I wanted this morning, and what I wanted last week. I also know what I wanted two months ago, and three months ago, and two years ago. What I mean is..." He gave Atem a pained look. "What I want has gone through some drastic changes. Who knows if what I want now is the right thing to want?"
"There's no right thing," Atem said, but his mouth was dry.
Yuugi laughed softly. "Now, I know you don't believe this."
Atem wished he could say something more. Something more useful. But he didn't want to tell Yuugi what to do. He simply wanted him to be happy—and the only one who could decide what would made him happy was Yuugi himself. And Atem wasn't going to go against what Yuugi wanted. Even though he wished—
He wished...
He wished Yuugi would stay with him. That they'd stay the way they were. The two of them, living together, sharing as many moments as they could, like old times. And they couldn't do that with Anzu in the way.
By Ra. When did he start thinking of Anzu as something that was in the way? He felt ashamed of himself, and momentarily he was glad that he was no longer sharing his thoughts with Yuugi.
If he were honest, he felt glad Yuugi could no longer read his thoughts for a multitude of reasons. He was glad Yuugi didn't know what went through Atem's mind every time Yuugi smiled at him, or every time he looked at him, or every time he simply was in the surrounding area. Those were things Atem had hardly processed himself, so he was glad no one else had access to these thoughts yet. It was all still very... confusing.
So perhaps he wasn't the most appropriate person to be giving advice to Yuugi. Especially since there was the chance that he was biased. As a rule of thumb, he tried to not let his personal wishes cloud his judgment, but even a king wasn't infallible. So he remained silent and drank his coffee.
He and Yuugi walked without talking for a while, until Yuugi beamed at him and said, "Come on. Tell me more about your day at work."
Bakura dropped his phone on his bed with an annoyed grunt. Malik hadn't picked up. Again.
What the hell was the damned Tomb-Keeper doing? He should be back to Domino by now. Actually, he should be back to Domino by yesterday evening. So why the hell wasn't he answering? Bakura was going crazy here, so he'd really appreciate it if Malik picked up the damn phone.
It had taken all his self-control to not go to Ryou's for the past two days. In fact, he had heeded Malik's advice and not done anything, just in case he made things worse. He had waited for Malik to be back, just the way they had agreed. Bakura thought he had displayed commendable patience—even though, to achieve that, he'd gone through a full pouch of tobacco and a bottle of vodka. And now the Tomb-Keeper wasn't picking up? The universe was really testing his limits.
Well. There was this one time Bakura almost headed out to go to Ryou's to... do something. He hadn't known what, he'd had no plan. Talk, maybe. Whatever. Thank the gods above and below, Yuki had stopped him and talked him out of it. She had said he should give Ryou—and himself—some time first.
The problem was, this was unbearable. He felt like tearing down the walls, or maybe gnawing at his bones. He needed to find Malik and tell him about what he'd read and what Ryou had said afterwards. He needed to tell him about the girls' advice. He needed to tell him about the decision he'd made. God, he needed all the help he could get with this 'being a good guy' thing, and who would be better at that than ex-bad-guy-turned-good-guy Malik?
But this drawn-out silence wasn't helping. Bakura had to resist the urge to stomp over to the Tomb-Keeper's house and bang on his door, because this didn't really sound like good-guy behavior. Yuki said that patience was good-guy behavior. So he had to wait for Malik to answer the fucking phone. Lovely.
Hoping to calm his nerves, Bakura decided to go to the gym.
It was late in the afternoon and none of the guys he used to spar with was there, which was a shame, because he'd love a good sparring session. He decided to leave the ring and the boxing bags and head over to the workout equipment on the other side of the gym. He'd seen these machines from afar, but he'd never really used them.
There was different equipment for each muscle group. At a first glance, they looked like torture machines. After he tried out a couple of them, he saw that his initial impression wasn't that far off the mark. After one and a half hour, his legs fucking hurt, but it was good. His muscles felt sore but well-trained.
Once he was done, he felt a lot better. His body was exhausted and his mind quieter, and he had made a decision: He would take a shower, get dressed, and then he'd head to the Crow. Going to the bar hardly counted as bad guy behavior, right? He could very well have gone for a drink. And if he happened to find the Tomb-Keeper there, oh well, lucky him, who would have thought.
Shortly after nine he left the Golden Egg, dressed in his warmest clothes. The sky was rumbling again, the clouds looking heavy. He hoped it wouldn't start raining again.
He had to keep himself from making a detour through Ryou's neighborhood, telling himself that it would be pointless. What would he do there, anyway? Stand outside and look up at Ryou's window? It was stupid, stupid, stupid.
He huffed and lit a cigarette, smoking as he passed through dim alleys. Once the Crow came into view, he let the butt of his cigarette drop, stomping it out with the heel of his boot, and went inside. He was welcomed by warmth and the by now familiar sound of heavy bass and rough guitars.
It was still early for places like the Crow, so there weren't many patrons there yet. Bakura quickly scanned the place, looking for either a mane of gold hair, or a white one: it had crossed his mind that Ryou might be there, so he hesitated at the doorway, ready to slip out the moment he caught sight of him. He didn't see Ryou, but he saw Malik, moving behind the bar, his gaze low over whatever he was preparing.
There you are, Bakura thought triumphantly.
He made for the bar at once, and he'd opened his mouth to shout something along the lines of Where the hell have you been, Tomb-Keeper? when something stopped him in his tracks.
Someone was sitting at the bar, in front of Malik. Someone with hair the exact shade of blond as Malik's, but wilder. A lot wilder.
Bakura narrowed his eyes. He took a step closer, to better look at the man's face. Then his eyes went wide, and he lifted a hand, pointing straight at the man.
"You!" he shouted.
A bunch of heads turned towards him, including the man with the wild blond hair. His lilac eyes met Bakura's, and Bakura tensed at once, his hand reaching for the knife in his pocket.
For a second they stared at each other, and Bakura had the memory of staring at the exact same face on a blimp, years ago: he'd seen that face sneer at him, with a grin like the Grim Reaper's scythe, right before releasing an inferno that had sent Bakura spiraling into darkness.
They stared at each other, and then the man—no, that devil—grinned, although it was but an echo of the blade-like grin of the past. "Oh, look at that. The thief," he said.
Out of the corner of his eye, Bakura saw Malik lift his head. "Bakura!"
Bakura didn't take his gaze away from the man in front of him. His hand was in his pocket, gripping the knife handle, ready to draw it at a split-second's notice.
The devil looked back at him, amused grin still in place, those lilac eyes looking so much like a parody of Malik's that Bakura felt like ripping them out of their sockets.
What the hell was that madman doing there? Why was he sitting at a stool at the bar, wearing normal clothes, with a glass in front of him? What the fuck was this? Where was the cape, and the Millennium Rod, and that sadistic deck?
"Bakura!" Malik called again.
Bakura stomped closer, still in full-attack mode, and shoved his face into that madman's until their noses nearly touched. "What the hell are you doing here?" he growled, baring his teeth.
The lilac eyes blinked, and the man drew back a few inches.
"Bakura, what the heck?" Malik said in a sort of loud whisper, shoving himself between them as best as he could with the bar counter getting in the way.
"What is he doing here?" Bakura snarled again.
"Bakura, just—"
"Relax, thief," the madman said then, and Bakura's blood surged to his head; he drew his knife, blade glinting in the half-light, and pushed its tip against the man's neck, right over where the main artery should be—if this devil even had normal, human veins.
"Don't you tell me to relax, you fucker," Bakura hissed in the man's face.
Yelps sounded from all around, and Malik shrieked, "Bakura!"
Bakura leaned closer to the man in front of him, pressing the blade deeper against his skin. "Tell me what the fuck you're doing here or I'll spill your guts right here on this—"
"Bakura!" Malik jumped over the counter and grabbed Bakura, pulling him back a couple of steps and trapping the arm that held the knife. "Are you crazy? Put that thing away!" he hissed in his ear.
"Not unless he tells me what the fuck—"
"Shut up and put the knife away!"
"Yo, Ishtar! Is there a problem here?"
The other barman was approaching hurriedly, and Malik turned around to shout, "No, it's fine, everything is under control—" Then he spun back at Bakura. "Hide that thing! Now!"
Bakura put the knife back in his pocket without letting it go, but before he had time to do much else, Malik grabbed his arm in a tight grip.
"Come with me!" he said in a shrill whisper and started pulling Bakura towards the staff door at the far side of the bar. "Mariku! You too!" The devil that wore Malik's face stood up and followed them.
"Mariku?" Bakura growled. "It has a name?"
"Shut up," Malik shot. His voice had danger in it.
Malik opened the staff door and all but shoved Bakura inside. He held it open for a couple of seconds, until the thing with the name Mariku walked in too, and then Malik pulled the door closed with a loud bang. The music and the sounds of the bar were drowned out at once.
"What the hell—" Bakura started but Malik cut across him.
"Are you fucking crazy? Pulling a knife in here?" His eyes were ablaze, and he was glaring at Bakura angrier than he'd ever seen him.
"Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do when I see him sitting—"
"You're supposed to shut up and let me explain!"
"Alright, then. Explain."
Malik huffed and pressed his fingertips into his eyes. "A knife. I can't believe it. This isn't one of your fucking sleazy bars! You could cost me my job! What the fuck were you thinking—?"
The devil with Malik's face stood a couple of steps away from them, watching the exchange, and Bakura scowled. "I don't think that's the worst of our problems right now—"
"Well, it sure as hell ain't making my life easier!" Malik thundered. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
"You weren't answering your phone, so I—"
"Did it occur to you that I might have more important issues to care about? Did you even take a second to think of someone else besides yourself?" Bakura had never seen Malik yell like this, not even back in Battle City. He was screaming on the top of his voice, face twisted in anger, and Bakura guessed it was lucky they were behind a sound-proof door.
"Well, I didn't want to talk about myself, I wanted to talk about—"
"I have problems of my own, Bakura, in case you couldn't fucking tell! I can't deal with yours on top of it!"
After Malik's yell died out, silence fell. The Tomb-Keeper was breathing hard, still glaring at Bakura as hard as he could, and it was weird to see him so out of control while the devil behind him was standing so calmly, looking mostly curious. Bakura had no idea what the heck was going on.
He lifted his palms in an appeasing gesture. "Okay. I'm sorry, alright? I didn't mean to—"
"To what? To draw a knife in my working place? Or to barge in here to demand my time?"
"Both, I guess!" Bakura raised his voice too, making an exasperated gesture and letting his hands fall heavily to his sides. "How was I supposed to know what was going on when you weren't answering the damn phone?"
He expected Malik to start yelling again, but he simply ran a hand over his face, miraculously not smudging his eyeliner. He huffed heavily. "Well," he said, voice croaky and defeated. He brandished a hand towards that Mariku-thing. "This is what's going on."
"Yeah, I figured," Bakura grumbled. "How—? When—?"
"Oh cool, it's story-time again," Malik sighed. He pulled up a crate and sat heavily on it. "Sit."
Bakura obeyed, pulling up a crate for himself, while the Mariku-devil-thing stood standing a couple of steps to the side, still looking inexplicably calm.
"Okay. Here's the thing," Malik said, and then he said a story about some old lady in Tokyo and his yami coming back at the same time as Bakura and the Pharaoh, months ago, and living with said old lady. If Malik didn't look so serious while speaking, Bakura might had thought that the Tomb-Keeper was pulling his leg.
"So, he's back?" Bakura said. "Like... us?"
"Seems so."
"You think it has to do with... the Spellbook?"
Malik scowled, but the Mariku-yami-thing perked up. "The what?" he asked in his throaty, rough voice.
Malik's look darkened further, and he lowered his voice. "I haven't told him anything about that yet. I don't know if I can't trust him."
"Of course you can't trust him!"
"What's a Spellbook?" the Mariku asked.
"None of your fucking business," Bakura growled.
"You let me handle that, yeah?" Malik said sharply, looking angry again.
Bakura folded his arms across his chest. "Fine."
Malik huffed again, looking beyond exhausted. "I think we should all take a minute to... calm down."
"I am calm."
"Bakura, please."
"Fine, fine."
For a minute or so, nobody spoke. Malik was sitting on the crate, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, looking at nothing. Bakura looked at Mariku, as Malik had called him, weighing him up with his gaze, and Mariku stared back, looking largely... expressionless. He seemed to be waiting for whatever was going on to play out, without him being involved. Bakura wondered if Malik found his yami's behavior as unsettling as he did. He was too quiet.
Bakura turned his gaze to Malik. He looked so... tiny, hunched like this, unlike his usual proud and sure self—and the contrast with his yami, who was looming over him looking so massive, was disturbing. Bakura hated Mariku even more for making Malik look like this: so lost and uncertain, like a small child.
And honestly, yeah, Bakura was feeling kinda bad for coming in here and stirring up more trouble. Sure, he didn't mean to, but... he could have refrained from drawing a knife. Probably.
"Maybe I should go," he said.
Malik finally moved, looking up at him. "Yeah. Maybe you should."
"Should I... Should I come by your place later? Just to... I dunno. Help?"
A thin, sad smile curved Malik's mouth. "Help with what?"
Bakura shrugged. "I dunno. Anything."
"Thanks, but... I can handle it." He stood up and brushed his legs to smooth out his pants, then went to a tiny mirror that hung on the wall to check his eyeliner. He sighed heavily. "Sorry for not answering the phone."
"Nah," Bakura waved a hand. "You had your reasons." Then he stole a glance to the yami. "You sure you don't want me here? As... backup?"
Malik shook his head.
"Alright, then." Bakura stood up too. "But I will check on you. So you'd better answer the damn phone this time."
Malik gave a small smile. "Alright."
"And you," Bakura said, turning to the yami. Mariku looked back at him steadily. "If you harm even one of Malik's hair, I'll find you and make you regret it. Got it?"
"Don't worry, thief," the yami said, sounding surprisingly serious. "I don't have such plans."
"I'm just warning you, I will be on standby. And I'll be looking for a reason to punch you straight in your motherfucking face. I owe you that much."
The tiniest flicker of a grin curved one edge of Mariku's mouth. "Owe me? Why? I beat you fair and square."
"Don't try me, you fucker."
"Bakura," Malik's voice rang warningly. "You should go."
Bakura huffed loudly through his nose, still glaring daggers at Mariku. "Fine."
"You should leave through the back door. Don't go back to the bar after drawing a knife in there."
"Alright, alright." He fixed Malik will a serious gaze. "Call me if you have any trouble, okay? No matter the time."
"Okay."
Bakura gave the pair of them another long look, but there wasn't much else he could do, so he opened the door that led to the back yard and the alley beyond, and left.
.
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Disclaimer: Do NOT try to burn a heap of paper in your bathtub. It's definitely not advised.
Also, about Senet: nobody really knows the rules, but Egyptologists have made educated guesses. Don't quote my Atem on the rules, though. Mr Sakamoto's are the generally agreed upon 'correct' rules.
