Chapter 25: The madman in the bedroom

Bakura wondered if he should really leave Malik alone with that fiend. Sure, the Tomb-Keeper insisted he could handle it, but Bakura would much rather be safe than sorry.

Maybe he could stay in the area. Hover around the Crow and keep an eye out, just in case. It wasn't stalking if it was for a good reason... Right? It was more like being a secret bodyguard. Something which Malik was definitely not bound to appreciate—hence the need for secrecy.

Fucking hell. Who would have thought that, on top of everything else, that asshole would make an appearance? Malik did not deserve this. And, frankly, it made everything so fucking complicated. As if everything wasn't crappy enough already.

Did Ryou know about this? Malik hadn't been answering Bakura's calls for days, but that didn't mean he hadn't answered Ryou's either. Those two were friends. Best friends. So, Ryou probably knew.

Maybe Bakura should contact him and ask him. And then both of them could devise a plan to keep Malik safe. Ryou might have said that he didn't want to see Bakura ever again but, if it was for Malik's sake, maybe he'd change his mind.

Look at him. Looking for excuses to talk to Ryou. Damn. It was pathetic.

He loitered around the Crow for a while, testing out the side-alleys and trying to find a good vantage point from where to watch the bar's main entrance.

Truth was he had no idea what he ought to do. Neither concerning Malik, nor concerning Ryou. He'd hoped Malik would help him, but... That was out of the window now, wasn't it? Even Bakura could see that it would be too selfish on his part to demand that Malik deals with Bakura's problems. That wouldn't be good-guy behavior on Bakura's part.

And for fuck's sake, since when did Bakura start to rely so much on other people's help? First Malik, then Yuki and the girls... It seemed that all he did lately was ask for advice. This human shit was proving to be a lot more complicated than he expected.

And, worst of all was, he had an inkling that all he should do was to be patient. Be patient and wait for things to blow out. Wait for Malik to find his footing again and for Ryou's anger to dissipate.

Be patient. He could do that, right? He had waited patiently for three millennia to get his chance at revenge. He could wait for three fucking days and see how things would play out.

He could do it. He could do it hecoulddoithecoulddoit-

He lit a cigarette with a nervous flick of his lighter and leaned against a wall. His boot was tapping the ground quickly and repeatedly, seemingly of its own accord.

Hell. Waiting had never seemed so unbearable. He'd watched eons drift by quickly like storm clouds, watched them disappear in wisps of smoke. Each year had been like a blink of an eye, a soundless exhale, and he'd stayed quietly wrapped in darkness in an existence that had stretched against the centuries.

But now... His blood was pumping fast inside his veins and his limbs were full of electricity. Thoughts about Ryou were a constant itch in the back of his brain, and it seemed he'd go crazy unless he found some way to scratch it.

There had to be something he could do. No matter how small, there had to be something. He couldn't just sit and wait.

He took out his phone and checked the time. Ryou should still be at work... If he were on the afternoon shift, that was. Maybe he could check it out. The clothing store wasn't too far away.

Deciding that he had to move or risk losing his mind, he put out his cigarette with a stomp of his boot and took off. He was propelled forward by a tension as bright as lightning, fists clenching inside his pockets. The city flew by him in a haze as he marched with only half his mind on his surroundings. The other half was playing the same things over and over: the things he's read in Ryou's letters, and the things Ryou had said afterwards, and Ryou's look when he'd told him to get out. Ryou's everything. Ryou's thin frame and hollow cheeks, Ryou's tattered shoes, Ryou's dark circles and the scar on his hand.

And it made him angry. Not only because he couldn't get it out of his mind, but also because he couldn't get how everyone else had allowed this. Had they been blind? Ryou's so-called friends, even Malik, hadn't they seen how much Ryou was struggling? Why hadn't anybody helped him? Both back during high-school, and afterwards. Why had no one done anything?

Bakura would help him, if he knew how, but he didn't have the slightest fucking idea of what he should do. He didn't even know why he was currently on his way to Ryou's workplace. He knew only that he had to see him, even from afar. Make sure he was... okay, or something. After all, their last encounter had been intense. He had to make sure Ryou had recovered in one piece.

Yeah. He wasn't gonna make the same mistake twice. This time he wouldn't just wreak havoc and leave.

He reached the shopping district in record time, even by his standards, and didn't slow down until the front of Ryou's workplace came into view. He paused a few feet away from the store's window, making sure he was hidden by a group of girls.

It was past the store's closing time: the shutters were half-way down but the lights were still on. Bakura's heart was beating high up on his throat, and he swallowed dryly. He scanned whatever was visible of the store's inside, searching. He couldn't see much, so he moved closer to the entrance and peeked through the glass door. Part of him didn't care whether Ryou spotted him or not. Well, he guessed that part of him wanted Ryou to see him, even if it meant he'd just get angry and shout at him. Bakura wouldn't mind.

After a few seconds that dragged on like hours, Bakura spotted the back of a head with long white hair pulled up in a ponytail. Holding his breath, Bakura took half a step to the side, partially hiding around the doorway, without peeling his eyes off the white head. There was no mistaking that it was Ryou. He'd know him by the posture alone, by the shape of his shoulders, by the tips of his ears, or the particular shade of white of his hair.

Ryou was hunched over a pile of fabrics, fussing with something. Probably folding clothes. Bakura waited, and after a while Ryou turned around to place a shirt on a pile to his left and Bakura managed to get a glimpse of his face. With a sensation like getting the air punched out of his stomach, Bakura's gaze latched onto the sight, greedily taking in everything he could.

Ryou looked... bad. Not worse than usual, but that meant jack shit, considering. He looked like he could could use a week of uninterrupted sleep, and maybe a hot bowl of soup. The circles under his eyes make a stark contrast with his ashen skin, and his mouth was twisted in an expression Bakura recognized as concealed disdain. If Bakura were his boss, he'd give the guy a day off or five. Why the hell did no one ever notice that Ryou looked like he was hanging by a thread? And, if he wanted to be fair, why hadn't Bakura himself noticed it sooner?

He had to exercise an admirable amount of self-control to not barge inside, grab Ryou and drag him home where he could sleep. Would that even work? Maybe, in another universe.

What else was there that Bakura could do? Maybe... he could buy Ryou dinner. No knowingly, of course. He could buy takeaway and leave it outside Ryou's door. That way Ryou wouldn't have to lay eyes on him if he didn't want to. Maybe he could also hide some cash in Ryou's apartment while he was at it, make it appear like Ryou himself had stuffed it in a drawer and forgotten about it. Or maybe he could mind his fucking business and leave Ryou alone, the way he'd asked him to.

He should leave. He knew it, yet he couldn't take his eyes away from Ryou's profile. He watched him move around the shop, placing stacks of clothes on shelves or hanging them on racks. And, most frustratingly, he watched him talk to his coworkers, watched him swallow down his feelings and force a smile that, to Bakura, it looked more like a grimace.

He really should leave, because he'd go crazy if he had to watch Ryou do that much longer. With a huff, Bakura turned on his heel and went back the way he'd come from. Halfway to the Crow he changed his mind again. He felt useless. He couldn't do anything to help Malik, and he couldn't do anything to help Ryou, but nothing else held much appeal. The city felt like a cage and he could do nothing but pace around it.

"Fuck," he whispered, and lit another cigarette.


"Alright, time to go," Malik said to his yami as he turned off the bar's lights. With his yami matching him step for step, Malik went outside and locked the heavy doors. The streets were wet, but it wasn't raining anymore. Small mercies and stuff.

At least he'd lasted the day. Now, he thought grimly, I have to last the night. The lime knife was still in his pocket. Maybe he should invest in a proper knife, like Ryou had.

They walked in silence, Malik in the front and Mariku following a couple of steps behind. His presence felt like a creeping menace, raising the hair on the back of Malik's neck. He disliked having his back to him.

"Will you stop following me like a puppy?" he snapped, turning around to throw a glare at his yami.

Mariku blinked once. "Uh... What should I do?"

"Just walk beside me."

"Okay." With a couple long strides, Mariku caught up with Malik. He still kept a couple of paces' distance, but this time he was on Malik's left, not behind him. It was better. Much better. Malik relaxed by a fraction.

When they reached his building, Malik unlocked the main entrance and waited for Mariku to get in. They climbed up to the first floor with Malik being keenly aware of how tight a place the staircase was. He nearly ran up the couple of steps, just to get away from there, and unlocked the door to his apartment. Mariku didn't notice his agitation or, if he did, he didn't comment on it. He walked in, serene and quiet, took off his shoes and his jacket and placed them on the rack. The mundane nature of the action threw Malik off so much he felt like he slipped a couple of inches sideways out of his body, halfway to a universe that felt like a dream.

He had a headache again. It had persisted during the entirety of day, dying out after Malik took a painkiller only to come back with a vengeance an hour later. He wondered if Mariku was getting these headaches, too.

He turned to consider him. So far, the yami hadn't looked like he'd been in discomfort at any point during the day. He'd looked confused and lost and troubled, but not once did he look like he were in pain.

"Does—" Malik started. He cleared his throat. "Does your head ever hurt?"

Mariku trained his lilac eyes on him. Maybe it was just an impression, but Malik thought the look the yami gave him was rather knowing. He didn't answer.

Malik shrugged. "Alright, then." He went to the kitchen and took a box of painkillers from the cupboard. "I guess you don't need one, then?"

Mariku shook his head.

"Suit yourself," Malik murmured and gulped down a pill without bothering with water. "Okay. Time for bed."

He let Mariku wash up and then locked him in the bedroom, aware that what he was doing could be considered borderline inhumane. Well. He was only doing what he had to do to stay safe.

He laid on the couch with a huff, stretching out his legs over the armrest.

He knew he had to get some sleep. It would be the only thing that would clear his head and give him the strength to tackle the following day. He had decided that he would talk to Ryou. He had been mulling it throughout the day, and he'd always reached the same conclusion: they had to see that Spellbook business through. They had to get rid of the yamis and seal them away forever.


He decided to give it a shot first thing in the morning. Before Mariku woke up, Malik was already up and about, making himself a cup of coffee and a quick breakfast. He had managed to get a few hours of sleep and was feeling much better. Optimistic, even.

He sat at the kitchen table and took his phone in his hand. Ryou should be up by now: today was the day he had uni classes.

Alright. Good luck, me, he thought, and pressed the call button.

Ryou picked up after a couple of beats. "Hey, Malik, good morning."

"Hey. How are you?"

"I'm fine. It's you I'm worrying about."

"Nah, don't worry. I'm okay."

"How were things at work yesterday?"

"It was cool, mostly. You know, he was just sort of sitting there, doing nothing."

"So, no trouble?"

Malik hesitated for a second, wondering if he should mention the incident with Bakura. "...No. No trouble."

"Is he sleeping now?"

"Yeah. Listen... I gotta talk to you."

"About what?"

"About..." Malik hesitated again. He heaved out a long exhale. "Just. Promise you'll hear me out, okay?"

"O...kay?"

"Alright. We gotta talk about the Spellbook."

There was silence on the other end of the line. Then a huff, and, "What about the Spellbook?"

"You know. We should... Keep doing what we were doing. Translate it and... Find out how we can seal the yamis away."

"Alright. I think we can manage, you and I."

"Ryou." Malik licked his lips. "You know we can't do it alone."

"Well, too bad, cause—"

"Ryou, please, listen to me—"

"Don't!" Ryou snapped. "Don't you dare suggest that I talk to him! It's over! I don't want him near me, there's no fucking way—"

"We need him," Malik said firmly.

"No, we don't. I've gotten the hang of it. I can do it without him."

"Do you?"

"Yes!"

Malik sighed again. "Ryou. We can't play around any longer. This shit has gotten serious—"

"Thank you very much for the heads-up, Malik Ishtar, but for me it's always been serious."

Malik winced. "Okay. Yes. I know, but—" He rubbed his fingertips against his eyes. "We gotta undo this. We can't let things go on like this. I... I've got my yami in my fucking bedroom. Honestly, my sanity is hanging by a thread, and the only out I see is the Spellbook. Please."

"I'm not letting Bakura near me ever again. I'm not gonna negotiate—"

"He doesn't even have to be near you! We'll just—find some way for you to communicate and compare notes, and—"

"No. I mean it."

"Ryou—"

"We'll do it alone."

"We can't!"

"We'd better find a way to."

Malik mouthed a curse and closed his eyes tightly. He was running out of things to say. "Please," was all he managed. Gods, he sounded desperate.

"I can drop by your place after uni, with the Spellbook. I'll prove you we don't need him."

Malik mulled it over. "What about Mariku? I don't want him to see the stuff."

"Well, there's no other way. Not unless you want to lock him in your apartment and come by my place—"

"I'm not leaving him here alone!"

"Then I'm coming by your place in the afternoon. Lock him in the bedroom if you have to." Ryou truly sounded cold sometimes.

"Fine," Malik said.


The Spellbook session with Ryou went about as well as Malik had expected—which was to say, not well at all. Malik locked his yami in the bedroom, not able to shake off a feeling of unease as he did so, and then he and Ryou spread out the Spellbook pages in the living room. Ryou tried to explain to him the progress they'd made with Bakura, but Malik gave up after twenty seconds of looking at the pages. He had to get up and go stand on the other side of the living room, looking at anything but the dark symbols on the paper, while Ryou kept talking about something Malik couldn't fully get.

And then Malik watched Ryou get progressively more frustrated as he leafed through the pages and tried to take notes, only to slam his notepad down and try a different page, over and over and over again.

"I can do this!" he snapped at some point. "It's just—" He never explained what the problem was. He simply scowled and picked up his pencil.

After three hours of huffing and puffing, Malik dared point out the elephant in the room. "Ryou, it's futile."

"At least I'm trying!" Ryou said, whirling around to glare at him.

"I know, but it's getting us nowhere! We need—"

"I need some more time."

"Well, and I gotta go to work."

Ryou got to his feet and started stacking the Spellbook pages. "Today is my day off. I'm gonna keep trying."

"Alright. Call me if you find something, okay?" Malik said, hearing the dubious tone in his voice even though he tried to hide it.

Sure enough, Ryou didn't call. When Malik's shift was nearing its end, he decided to send a probing text.

To: Ryou, 00:42
Any progress?

The reply was quick.

From: Ryou, 00:42
No.

Malik wasn't surprised, but he guessed this situation was a good thing, in its own way. Ryou would keep trying for another day or two, and then he'd have to admit they needed to ask for Bakura's help. That was as good a way to persuade Ryou as any.


Ryou didn't give up so easily. Fueled by anger and sheer stubbornness, he was determined to prove that he didn't need Bakura in any way, capacity, or form. And he made it clear to Malik more than once. Any time Malik brought up Ryou's lack of progress with the Spellbook, Ryou snapped back, saying that Bakura hadn't made any progress at first, either, and that he simply needed more time.

Malik doubted that time was all they needed. He'd seen the way Ryou and Bakura were when working together, communicating with barely needing to speak, finishing each other's sentences and, creepiest of all, seemingly reading each other's thoughts at times, hearing things when Malik would have sworn nobody had spoken. Their technique—if it could be called that—was nothing that could be defined, and yet they'd somehow managed to make sense out of the senseless. And it had taken both of them for that to happen.

No one else could do what they were doing. Not Ishizu, not Kaiba's AI, not Atem and Yuugi, and definitely not him or Mariku.

Unfortunately, Ryou wanted to hear nothing about it.

"I can manage just fine on my own," he kept saying, gritting his teeth, and Malik wasn't sure the Spellbook was all he was talking about.

"Just what did he do to make you this angry?" Malik dared—or rather, made the mistake to—ask. It was third day of no progress; the third day Malik had had to lock Mariku in his bedroom so that Ryou and him could sit in the living room with the Spellbook, and Malik hadn't been able to hold back. Every time he locked Mariku in the bedroom, he could see the yami's look darken. That old lady, Aiko, had warned Malik not to overwhelm him, and Malik was still, fearfully, waiting for the moment when all would go to shit. He couldn't keep living like this, with a knife in his pocket, barely sleeping, always alert. Or dragging his yami to work with him every night. So the question slipped out of his lips, and Ryou's head immediately snapped up.

"I know he broke into your apartment—" Malik added.

"He invaded my privacy!" Ryou shouted. "He went through my things, and he—he—"

"He read your letters. I know."

Ryou's face turned stony. "He crossed the line. We had agreed—It had been one of the ground rules—"

"Yeah, so he's an asshole, I know."

"Then don't ask me to keep working with him!"

"I just don't see how that's any worse from—"

Ryou jumped to his feet. "Of course. I don't expect you to understand. You like him, after all," he said coldly, and started gathering the Spellbook pages with terse, snapping movements, the paper crinkling in his fists.

"Ryou, we've been though this—"

"Exactly! We've been through this! So stop asking!" He grabbed his messenger bag, stuffed the papers inside haphazardly, and stormed out of Malik's apartment, slamming the door.


Ryou was angry. Very angry.

Malik wouldn't shut up about Bakura, and Ryou wished he would just stop. Because he could see the dead-end he'd ran into. He could see that what he was doing wasn't working. Of course he could see it—he wasn't an idiot. Which was why he was so angry.

He couldn't accept that, after all this time, he still needed Bakura. Ryou might have been able to overlook this if it hadn't been for what Bakura had done.

The letters—

Ryou was angry at himself, too. He had cried in front of Bakura. He had let too many things slip out of him. He had let Bakura get to him, and he had let himself believe, for a moment, that his yami's shock had been genuine, that the stricken look on his face had been real.

And, worst of all was, he knew that what Bakura had read had all been true. Ryou had hidden those letters for a reason. They scared him. Who he was back then scared him. The feelings of that Ryou—that time in his life, those thoughts, that reality—all of it scared him.

All this time, the one thing that had carried him was the certainty that Bakura no longer had a hold over him. No longer could he peek in Ryou's soul, all his feelings spread out for him to observe and manipulate. The darkest recesses of his mind had been his and only his, and he could keep Bakura out, if he wanted to. Or so he had thought.

Ryou knew that a part of him was still the Ryou of those letters. He knew what he had felt when he'd seen Bakura in the rain on that fated night. Fear, yes. But not fear for his life. It had been fear of himself—of that past Ryou who still lived inside him, and who had raised his head to look up with hope. Fear of the Ryou who had searched for those red eyes in crowds, in reflections, in dreams. Fear of getting that Ryou's biggest wish realized—because what do you do when you finally get the thing you thought you'd never get? But more importantly, it had been fear of realizing how strong that part of himself was. Fear of how easily he would go under, if those red eyes looked into his and that damn mouth said all the right words.

He had run. But he hadn't really run away from Bakura. He had tried to run away from that illusion he'd found himself sunken into—the feeling of being that Ryou again, of dreaming, and dreaming, and dreaming. The Ryou who had written letters to ghosts, who'd felt like a ghost himself, who'd rather be one, most of the times. The Ryou who'd longed.

He'd thought no one would notice. No one would know, because no one really knew that dark part of Ryou. Even Malik had only seen glimpses.

But now Bakura knew. Bakura had seen. Once again he'd tore Ryou's soul open and gnawed at his insides, leaving no stone unturned, no secret uncovered. Ryou was again splayed out, his ribs baking in the sun, his heart sliced open, all Bakura's for the taking. No place to hide.

He couldn't face Bakura after this. He didn't even want to hear his voice on the phone. How could he? What would he say?

He had said he wasn't that Ryou anymore. That was what he'd told Bakura—the Ryou of the past is gone. And that was exactly what he'd been trying to do: keep him gone. He'd tried not to care. When he'd seen Bakura fighting in that cage, and afterwards, when Bakura had sat in front of him, bruised and dazed in that tiny room; when he'd cracked jokes on those walks to Ryou's home after their sessions, or when he'd paused to watch the lightning—Ryou had tried not to care. And he'd done a damn good job at playing the part.

And that was why he couldn't face Bakura now. All the defenses Ryou had built had been torn down, the only way of keeping himself safe was to stay away.

It wasn't even a matter of stubbornness. And, no matter how much Malik pleaded with him or how much it tore at Ryou's heart to see his friend so desperate, he just couldn't do it.

Anger was the only defense left to him.

He didn't give up on the Spellbook. Part of him still hoped that he would manage to translate it all by himself and get out of this situation without ever having to deal with Bakura. Then his life would resume, and he would go on. He'd be normal again. This time forever.

That was his goal. So he kept struggling over the Spellbook, biting down his frustration with each fruitless hour that went by, and he kept hanging up every time Malik called him to tell him about Bakura.

"I don't wanna hear it," he kept saying.

"We've already talked about it."

"The answer is no."

"Stop asking."


Malik put his phone down with a huff. Ryou had hung up again.

He was running out of options. He didn't know what else to do and, from his spot on the couch, Mariku was watching him closely. He always did whenever Malik was in the room.

"What?" Malik challenged.

The yami did not reply. He simply scowled, mouth pinching in the same way Malik's did whenever he was angry. As the days passed, Mariku seemed to make that expression more frequently. The situation was wearing on him too.

Calling Ryou was getting Malik nowhere. He had to do something more drastic.

With a sigh, he took his phone out and texted Bakura.


It was nearly closing time when Bakura walked in the Crow, face half-hidden in his hair and shoulders hunched in the way that meant he was bad-tempered. His gaze immediately fixed on Mariku, his expression taking a dangerous edge. Malik hoped he wouldn't have to avert a knife attack again, because that was the last thing he needed right now.

"Hey," Bakura said when he reached the bar, still not looking at Malik. He seemed to be trying to intimidate Mariku as much as he could by gaze alone.

"Hey, Bakura," Malik said tiredly. "Hang on a sec, I gotta finish cleaning up first."

"No problem," Bakura growled, his eyes still on Mariku. He sat two seats away from the other yami, turning so that he could face him fully, and the two of them engaged in some sort of staring game. Mariku's mouth was pinched again, but not quite as angrily as it used to these days. There was an amused twist to it as he squared his shoulders and faced Bakura.

"Great..." Malik murmured, watching the two yamis glare at each other. He grabbed a cloth and started wiping the work counter. "It took you a while to get here," he said, glancing up at Bakura.

"I was busy," Bakura said through gritted teeth.

Malik gave him a more careful look. There were no signs of a fight on Bakura's face, no bruises, no cuts, no telltale exhaustion. Which meant he hadn't had a match that day—or the previous one.

He realized he didn't really know what Bakura was up to these days. It had been a while since he'd sat down to properly talk to him. Part of him felt bad for not caring enough about his friends, but the part of him that was silently freaking out over the situation with Mariku was a lot stronger and louder in his head. So.

He finished cleaning up while the other barman, Reiji, took the last of the glasses out of the dishwasher. There were a couple of patrons left on a table next to the pool table, finishing their drinks. The rest were gone, and Malik had sent the waitress home twenty minutes ago.

"Alright, I'm done," Reiji said, putting his own polishing cloth down. "Man, I'm beat."

"Yeah, me too," Malik murmured.

Reiji gave him a long look, then nodded towards the door. "Come on, go home. I'll take care of the last customers."

Malik glanced towards the guys nursing their beers at the far table. "You sure, Reiji?"

"Yeah, I can manage. Come on, you've been the one to close up shop this past week. I owe you. Plus..." Reiji nodded towards Bakura and Mariku, "Your company's waiting for you."

Malik grimaced. "Not exactly the best of company..." He untied his leather apron and set it on the shelf under the counter, right where his station was. "Thanks, Reiji."

"Don't mention it."

"Alright, guys," Malik said to the two yamis. "I'm going to grab my coat."

None of them answered; they were still staring at each other. A muscle was twitching over Bakura's brow.

"Whatever," Malik murmured and left them to it.

In the staff room, he took a minute to pause and compose himself. It was blissfully quiet in there. He leaned against the coat rack and breathed deeply. At least he had spent the evening without a headache. He hoped Bakura wouldn't trigger one.

He grabbed his jacket and left the room. "Alright, guys, let's go," he said, beckoning at the two yamis. Bakura, who hadn't bothered to take off his own jacket, got to his feet at once, Mariku following suit.

The walk to Malik's place was a quiet one. Malik walked between the yamis, feeling Bakura walking stiffly beside him, probably holding onto his knife. Malik's own sad little lime knife was in his jacket pocket, not too far away from his own hand. Mariku didn't look at them as they walked, but the amusement was gone from his face, leaving just behind the usual impression of distant anger.

When they reached Malik's apartment, they all walked in, one after the other. Bakura checked out the place at once, probably trying to spot any disturbances caused by Mariku's presence.

"Just wait for me in the kitchen," Malik said to him, nodding towards the door to his left. Then he turned to Mariku. "I gotta—"

Before he had a chance to finish his sentence, Mariku cut across him, face looking stony. "I know. I go to the bedroom." Without another word, he turned around and went to Malik's room, closing the door behind him, but not before Malik had a chance to see his shoulders turning taut and his stance taking something of its old menace.

Malik stood, staring at his bedroom door, trying to fight off the sensation of his insides freezing over.

"You okay?" Bakura asked.

"Yeah..." Malik said. "Wait, I gotta lock him in."

One of these days, he thought as he turned the key in the lock, this is gonna go terribly south. This was a dangerous balancing act they were performing. How long until they tipped over the razor's edge?

He threw his jacket on the couch and followed Bakura to the kitchen, turning on the light. Bakura took the same seat he'd favored the previous time, squeezed between the table and the wall, almost melting in the corner. Malik dropped on the chair across from him and ran his hands through his hair with a long, weary sigh.

"Is that what you always do? You lock him in the bedroom?" Bakura said.

Malik took his time rubbing his eyes, then he gave Bakura a tired look. "If you have a better idea, I'm all ears."

Bakura let out a grunt. He turned to look in the direction of the bedroom. "And he's just been going along with it?"

"So far."

"Hm. You don't sound very confident."

"I don't like it," Malik said sharply. "And I can tell he doesn't like it, either. It makes me wonder how long it's gonna take 'til he snaps."

"Until he snaps, or until you snap?"

"Both, honestly."

"And it's been like this since he came here?"

"Yup." Malik let his head drop in his hands, elbows on the table. "It's either this, or he sits in the living room, watching me. Or at the bar."

"Sounds annoying."

"It's driving me crazy." He lifted his head to fix his eyes on Bakura. "Which is why I needed to talk to you."

"Want me to take him out for you?"

Malik let out a half-hearted chuckle. If only. "Nah, that's not gonna cut it. I gotta get rid of him for good, Bakura. I can't—" He let out another sigh, and then something in his chest snapped loose. "I spent years working hard so that he wouldn't come back. I can't go through the same again and still have him return, somehow. I'm tired of having him haunt me. I need to find a way to make sure disappears forever. I gotta make it so that it no longer matters if I get angry, or if I mess up. I want—I want to feel like a human again." He didn't even know if he was making any sense, but Bakura was looking at him, red eyes unblinking.

"Okay. And how are you gonna do this?" Bakura said.

"The Spellbook."

"Ah, right." Bakura's gaze lowered to the tabletop, mouth twisting. "About that—"

"I know you and Ryou had a fight."

"Yeah, I fucked up."

"Well, you gotta un-fuck it."

A faint smile danced on Bakura's lips: a hollow thing, mirthless. "If only I knew how."

"You gotta find a way because, I'm telling you, I'm about to lose it. And Ryou doesn't want to hear about it—"

Bakura's head snapped up, eyes suddenly sharp. "You talked to Ryou?"

"Of course I did."

"What did he—?" Bakura licked his lips. "Did he—? Has he—? How... How is he?"

"About how you'd expect him to be. Furious. He doesn't want to see or talk to you. Not ever, he says. And he keeps insisting he can translate the Spellbook alone, but guess what. He can't. He has no clue how to."

Bakura was staring at Malik, looking ready to inhale every word. "He's tried to?"

"He'd been trying for the past few days. But it's obvious it's useless."

"He's been trying to read the Spellbook alone?"

"That's what I just said. Focus, Bakura."

Bakura sat back in his chair, molding himself in the shadowy corner. His gaze fixed on the opposite wall, centering on nothing. "Those letters—"

"Nah, I'm not gonna talk about that," Malik shook his head. "I told you, I can't deal with your problems right now. Sorry if I'm sounding like an ass, but—"

"I get it. But..." Bakura seemed to be struggling with words. His expression was twisted in a way Malik had never before seen on him. Sort of like... Anguish. Misery. "He'd written letters to me, Malik."

"Yeah, we've been through this, Bakura. Can we focus on the Spellbook?" Malik said, because he knew that if he let Bakura open that can of worms, they wouldn't discuss anything else.

"Did he really miss me? Back then?" Bakura's eyes were back on Malik, wide and imploring.

Malik didn't want to continue this conversation. He couldn't talk about the way Ryou had been ten years ago. Not now, anyway; not with Mariku locked in the bedroom and a million more problems in his head. He didn't have the mental fortitude for a deep dive into Ryou's years of depression, the drinking, the suicide attempt—

Shit. No. Malik couldn't do this now.

"Bakura, please. I've had a shitty day. Can we not talk about this right now?"

"Malik, I need to find a way to make things right again."

This surprised Malik enough for him to stop protesting for a while and contemplate Bakura. "You mean... To make up with Ryou?"

Bakura shook his head. "No, no. No. He—If he wants to hate me, he has every right to. I know he'll never forgive me. But I gotta... I gotta try and undo all the shit I did to him. You know? I messed his life up. So now is my chance to undo it. But... I don't know, Malik. I don't know how to do it." Bakura grabbed his head, pulling fistfuls of hair. "I don't know what to do."

Malik felt his expression soften. This was the most human he'd ever seen Bakura look. The most vulnerable.

"You want to help Ryou?"

Bakura breathed out a short laugh, mouth twisting in a sad grimace. "I don't know if help is the right word for it, but... I want to do something. Something that will have a good impact. So that, after all of this is over and I leave, he... He will be better off. Better than now. Better than ever. I wanna die knowing that... he is okay."

That was something Malik never expected to hear. Not from Bakura, anyway. He looked at him, this former-demon-now-turned-human sitting at his kitchen table, shoulders curled in, mouth pinched, brow crinkled. Malik had known from the first time they'd talked, back then at the Crow's backyard, that something about Bakura was different. But now... He seemed even more changed than before. Changed beyond the 'I no longer have Zorc in me' stage.

Would you look at that, Malik thought. Under all the layers of grumpiness and aggression and sarcasm, Bakura hid a heart. A soft one. It had probably been there all along, just waiting for something to penetrate all those layers and reach it. And Ryou had managed to—without even knowing.

"You mean that, right?" Malik asked, even though he didn't need to: the answer was written all over Bakura's face.

Bakura nodded.

"Wow, okay," Malik said. "It will take work."

"I know."

"Mostly because Ryou is so... well, stubborn."

"I told you. I'm not asking for his forgiveness. I just want to give him some... closure."

"You need closure, too."

Bakura shook his head. "My closure shouldn't matter to him."

"But the only way to get closure is through him."

"Then perhaps that's my purgatory."

"Holy shit, Bakura," Malik murmured. He got to his feet to pour himself a glass of whiskey. "You want some?"

"Is that whiskey?"

"Yeah."

"Then no."

"I've got beer in the fridge."

"...Okay."

Malik got his glass of whiskey and a can of beer for Bakura and returned to the table. The sound of the can opening and the beer fizzling was loud in the small space.

Bakura took two large gulps and set his drink down. "So. Where should I begin?"

"Well..." Malik paused to sip at his whiskey. "I guess you could apologize for breaking in his house and going through his stuff."

"Apologize how? He said he doesn't want to see me ever again."

"That never stopped you before."

"Nah, I'm not doing that sort of shit anymore. If he says he doesn't want me near him... I'll respect that. I'll have to find another way."

"Dude..." Malik murmured and took another sip. Where had Bakura been hiding all of this nobility? "Okay, then. You'll have to let me think about it, cause what you're asking is not easy."

"Alright," Bakura said. And then added, quietly, "...Thanks."

"Yeah, yeah," Malik said and clinked his glass against Bakura's can of beer. They drank in silence for a while. When Malik emptied his glass, he said, "One way or another, he will have to see you again. You gotta translate that Spellbook."

"Malik, that's the last thing on my mind right now—"

"Yeah, but it's not the last thing on mine." He gestured towards the direction of his bedroom. "I won't be able to keep locking Mariku away for long."

"Then don't."

"Oh, and am I supposed to let him listen in on us?"

Bakura shrugged. "If you wanted privacy, we could have gone for a walk. You could have left him here without locking him up."

"But that's—"

"What are you afraid of? You think he's gonna rob you if you leave him in here unattended?"

"No," Malik murmured, frowning at the bottom of his glass. "Mostly I fear that he'll murder everyone in the building."

Bakura shrugged. "As long as he doesn't harm you."

Malik gave him a stern look. "Bakura, that's not—"

"You know I'm gonna skin the bastard alive if he harms even a hair of your head. And I think he knows it too, by now. So try to not go crazy over it. When was the last time you let him out of your sight? Locking him in the bedroom and keeping guard outside doesn't count."

Malik scowled. Truth was he had never been too far away from his yami ever since they met each other... five days ago. Gosh. It had already been five days. It all seemed like one very long night in his head.

He hadn't been sleeping properly, and he hadn't been to the gym. He could feel his muscles getting rusty.

"I can't just leave, though, and go to... the gym, or whatever," Malik protested.

"Why not?"

Malik threw his hands in the air. "I just—I don't trust him."

"Me neither. So, tell you what. Tomorrow I'll come and stay with him for a couple of hours, and you'll be able to go and breathe away from him for a while. How does that sound?"

Malik let out an incredulous laugh. "You? Stay alone with him?"

"Why not? I can take him."

"Yeah, right," Malik said, thinking of coming back to find his apartment demolished and both yamis unconscious. Then again, maybe he was overthinking it. Maybe what Bakura was proposing wasn't that bad.

"I help you with Mariku, and you help me with Ryou. Sounds fair, right?" Bakura said.

Malik thought about it. "...Yeah. Yeah, okay."


The following day, Bakura did exactly what he'd promised to. He arrived at Malik's doorstep around three in the afternoon, holding a paper cup of his favorite caramel latte—with extra whipped cream—and with his pockets full of tobacco. Apart from Ryou's knife, which was in his jacket pocket, he had one more switchblade hidden in his jeans' pocket, and another one stuffed in his boot, just in case.

Malik was waiting for him, with his workout gear already on and his gym bag strap draped over one shoulder. "Hey," he said from the doorway, zipping up a puffy lilac jacket.

Bakura paused on the threshold, sipping at his coffee, and gave Malik a look up and down. Damn, his workout gear was much better than Bakura's. Those sneakers looked neat. And those leggings paired with the long shorts looked hella sick. Better than track pants, surely.

"What's wrong?" Malik asked.

"Where'd you get these clothes?"

Malik smirked. "You want me to take you shopping?"

Bakura shrugged. "Maybe. Where is—?" He trailed off as he searched the living room with his gaze and, sure enough, spotted Mariku sitting on the couch. He fixed him with a glare for a couple of seconds, just to set the mood, and then turned back to Malik. "Alright. You can go. I've got this."

Malik still looked unsure. He bit his lip, glancing over his shoulder. "You sure? I can still—"

"Bye-bye, Malik," Bakura said, shoving him out of the door.

"Alright, alright. Call me if there's any trouble, okay?"

"Don't worry about it. I told you, I've got this."

With another uncertain look, Malik finally left. Bakura closed the door.

"Alright. It's you and me now," he said, turning around to face the other yami.

Mariku sat up straighter in his seat. He was looking unflinchingly at Bakura, his blond hair forming a wild halo around his head, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

Bakura moved to take his usual seat in the yellow armchair, across from the couch. Just a couple of weeks ago, it had been Ryou sitting in that madman's place, his books strewn about among Spellbook pages and notepads. Bakura would never have expected it, but he kind of missed that. Somehow, things had been simpler back then.

"Alright, so," Bakura started, staring straight at Mariku's face. "What's your plan?"

Mariku titled his head slightly to one side, eyes narrowing a fraction more. "Plan?"

"Yeah." Bakura gestured around, still holding his cup of coffee. "Why'd you come here looking for Malik? From what I heard, you were perfectly fine without him. And he was perfectly fine without you."

Mariku seemed to consider it for a few seconds. "Fine..." he said wonderingly. "Yes, I guess I was fine. As for the plan... that was to ask Malik for answers."

"Hm. Just that?"

Disconcertingly, Mariku smirked. "Do you find that so hard to believe, thief? Did you not have questions?"

Bakura didn't feel the need to answer. Mariku went on.

"Malik says the Pharaoh is back, too."

Bakura scowled. "Yeah."

"Have you seen him?"

"No," Bakura grunted. "But I'd like to, just to punch him in the face."

Mariku's smirk widened. "That sounds like a plan."

"Don't get any ideas. I'm not letting you out of this apartment."

"If I wanted to leave, you wouldn't be able to stop me, thief."

So that bastard still had fangs, huh. Bakura shifted in his seat, feeling the switchblade in his jeans' pocket digging slightly against his thigh. The feeling was reassuring.

"We'll see about that," Bakura growled.

They stared down at each other for a couple of minutes, none of them moving. Bakura's muscles were waiting for the slightest provocation to propel him into action. But the other yami didn't move. Instead, after the silence had gone on for long enough, he relaxed his stance, sinking back onto the cushions. "There will be no need to. I told you. My only plan is to get answers."

"And after you get your answers? What then?"

For the first time, Mariku looked troubled. "What do you mean?"

"What are you gonna do next? There must be a reason why you want answers so badly."

"What's your reason?"

Bakura scowled at him. "None of your fucking business."

"I see." Mariku stared at Bakura. The look wasn't malicious; just curious, as if he was trying to understand him. "Malik trusts you," he said then.

Where was he going with that? Cautiously, Bakura said, "Yeah."

"What about your vessel?"

In an even harsher tone, Bakura said, "What about him?" If that bastard said anything about Ryou, if he even alluded to endangering him in any way—

"Does he trust you, like Malik does?"

Bakura pinched his mouth shut. Despite himself, part of his mind went to Ryou, and he felt the telltale grip of guilt in his stomach.

Mariku's grin seemed to transfer to his eyes. "I saw him, you know."

Bakura had managed to keep his cool so far, but that did it: he felt his eyes widen, his body tensing up like a taut bowstring. How had this bastard seen Ryou? When? Bakura had been outside Ryou's workplace a few days ago, and Ryou had been alive and well. Not exactly well, but—

Mariku couldn't have hurt him in the meantime, could he? No; Malik hadn't let him out of his sight. So how—?

"Relax, thief," Mariku said, sounding like he was enjoying himself. "He came here to check on Malik. We talked."

"When?" Bakura said, voice terse.

Mariku contemplated him, again with that curious look. The grin wasn't entirely gone from his eyes. "You worry about him."

Bakura felt his face spasm, and he scowled to hide it.

"Malik has been talking with him a lot on the phone," Mariku went on.

"Answer my fucking—"

"They seem to disagree about something." That made Bakura pause and stare as Mariku thought about his next words. "Malik always sounds... desperate."

"I wonder why," Bakura grumbled darkly, hoping his glower towards Mariku was as pointed as he tried to make it.

"He mentions you sometimes."

Bakura felt like he'd gotten a small punch in the center of his diaphragm. Damn. He would have to ask Malik about this. Also, he should probably make it known to him that his yami was listening in to his phonecalls.

But Malik had been talking with Ryou. He had been talking with Ryou about him. He wondered if they had discussed the letters. And everything... else.

Bakura contemplated Mariku, weighing him up. Maybe one question would do no harm. He went for it.

"What do they say? When they talk?"

"About you?"

"About whatever," Bakura snapped, irritated—mostly for having to resolve to asking this psycho for information. And the worst part was, Mariku could see the effect he was having on him. It was obvious in the way his look turned impish. There was something of Malik in that look: same hint of playfulness.

"I told you, thief. They disagree a lot. Malik tries to... persuade him. About something."

One corner of Bakura's mouth twisted downwards. That something was obviously the Spellbook sessions. They probably disagreed over whether Ryou could translate it by himself. And Malik was trying to persuade him... to work with Bakura?

"You know what I'm talking about," Mariku said.

"Of course I fucking know!"

"Then why are you asking me about it?"

Bakura looked away, annoyed. He would never admit it out loud to that bastard. But. He wanted all the information on Ryou he could get. Maybe something would give him a hint as to what he should do.

"Have you met him?" Mariku asked.

"Who? Ryou?"

Mariku nodded. His eyes were practically gleaming with curiosity.

Bakura snorted. Had he met him! "You have no idea," he drawled, taking out his tobacco pouch. He was allowed to smoke in there when Malik wasn't around, right?

"Why did you meet him?" Mariku asked then.

Bakura frowned, this time in confusion. "What—?"

"Weren't you... How did you say it? 'Perfectly fine' without him?"

Bakura rolled a cigarette. He licked along the paper to seal it, taking his time, not looking at the yami across from him. After he lit his cigarette and took one long drag, he said, "You always talk this much?"

"Not always. Malik doesn't want to talk."

"A wise choice."

"But you want to talk."

"No, I fucking don't."

"You started it."

"And now I'm ending it," Bakura snarled. He regretted having started the conversation, anyway. It was stupid to think he would get anything worthwhile out of this nutcase.

He would drop by Ryou's afterwards, in any case. Just to make sure everything was okay.


As Malik finished his workout and went to pick up his gym bag, he marveled at how much better he was feeling. Significantly more... centered. His head was clearer. He hadn't known how much he needed that small break until he took it.

He thought he could see things more clearly now. He didn't have all the answers, but at least he had determined what his next step should be.

He would talk to Rishid and Ishizu. He would tell them everything about Mariku. There was no reason to postpone it. Plus, his siblings knew both of them as well as it got; they'd surely have a couple of useful things to say.

In fact, he would do that right away, before he changed his mind.

As he walked out of the gym to the late afternoon's chill, he took out his phone. Ishizu would be at work, but he could call Rishid.

He search for Rishid's contact and pressed the call button. As the phone started ringing, he took off on foot in the direction of home.

"Hello," Rishid's deep voice rumbled through the line.

"Hey, what's up?" Malik said.

"Hey. Not much. I'm working on my book. What about you?"

"Um... Is Ishizu at work?"

"Yeah."

"Alright... I guess I'll call her later."

He heard some movement stop at the other end of the line. Rishid had stopped whatever he was doing; when he spoke, his voice had shifted in a much more serious tone. "What's wrong?"

Malik took a deep breath. "I got something important to tell you."

Rishid didn't speak. He simply waited.

"So..." Malik went on, "you know how the Pharaoh and Bakura—the Thief King Bakura—are back from the dead, right?"

"Yes," Rishid said, carefully.

"Yeah... Up until now, I thought I was the lucky one. But..." Malik trailed off.

Rishid did not reply, but something about the silence on the other end of the line turned heavier. His silence was a solid, tangible thing. He wasn't even breathing. Malik wasn't, either.

"...He's back?" Rishid asked then, and his voice made Malik stop dead in his tracks. He hadn't heard that tone come out of Rishid's mouth in years. It wasn't anger, nor fear; it was something darker, more resolute. It was the voice of the Rishid that did not hesitate to assume the Ghoul mantle; the Rishid that could deceive and trick and hold the Millennium Rod without faltering; the Rishid that could carve hieroglyphics on his own face with a steady hand. It was the voice of the Rishid that was prepared to do anything, anything, if it meant that he'd get to keep Malik safe.

Malik swallowed hard. "Yes."

The heavy silence on the other end of the line was broken by the sound of chair legs scraping the floor, a thud, sharp breathing, footsteps. "Where? Where is he now?"

"He's at my place."

The footsteps and the noise stopped abruptly. "What?"

"Yeah, he's, umm... He came to find me. A few days ago." And, before Rishid could freak out more, Malik told him everything. He could hear his voice go from hysteria to anger to incredulity and back, and he ran his hand through his hair more than once. When his narration was over, he burst out in laughter, cheerless and bitter. "And now he's at my place with Bakura. Bakura! Can you believe it? Bakura came over so that I could leave for a while and clear my head! Everything is just... nuts, Rishid! And I—I don't know what to do!"

"He didn't hurt you, did he?"

"No! I told you, he's... It's weird. He's too quiet. He just sits around, observing or asking things. And that's about it." He wanted to laugh again, but instead he found his eyes stinging. Bitter fury climbed up his throat. "I thought I was free!" he said, the words burning his mouth. His hand was trembling; the phone shook against his ear, clanking against his earring. "I thought I was—I thought—" He felt the trail of tears on his cheeks, burning hot and instantly freezing in the air.

"Malik," Rishid said, steady and soft and quiet. "It's not your fault."

Everything stopped momentarily, from Malik's tears to his heartbeat. He didn't even breathe, out of fear that it had been the sound of the air playing tricks on him.

"It's not your fault," Rishid repeated. "Do you hear me?"

Malik wasn't sure what his face was doing but, if he had to guess, he'd bet that he was looking pretty fucking ugly right now, forehead all scrunched up and jaw trembling and tears and snot all pouring down his face. But fuck it, he didn't care. He let it all come, the tears and the ugly sobs, because somehow a few small words had just managed to lift the weight of the entire world off his shoulders, and the relief was so sweet he could do nothing but weep.

He knew Rishid could hear him, as he knew that the passers-by could see him bawling his eyes out. At any other given moment, he'd be too embarrassed about it, but pride wasn't high on his list of priorities right now.

"Where are you?" Rishid asked, and Malik tried to get a hold of himself. He sniffled a couple of times, wiping his face—rather unsuccessfully—on his jacket sleeve.

"I'm on my way home."

"Okay. Can you find... someplace private, to talk?"

"Yeah, hang on." Malik made a small detour, slinking into a dank side alley that was empty, save for a few trash cans and a stray cat. He leaned with his back against a brick wall and wiped his eyes again, taking deep, steadying breaths. "Sorry, I just—"

"Don't apologize. I can only imagine how stressful this is—"

"Stressful doesn't even begin to cover it."

"I can come to Domino. I can catch tonight's flight—"

"No, Rishid—" Malik winced as he said it, because there was nothing he wanted more right now than to have his siblings close. Or maybe he simply wanted a strong back to hide behind and a pair of arms to curl in. Someone to tell him not to worry and to take care of everything. "No. You can't just leave everything to come and coddle me."

"I don't think this counts as coddling."

"I don't know if it would do any good. It might make things worse. Having you here—I mean. Mariku's been pretty chill so far, but who knows how he'll react if he sees you?"

"Well, if he reacts badly, at least I'll be there to—"

"You're not exactly his favorite person, you know. I don't wanna risk it."

"Malik—"

"No," Malik said firmly. "I don't want you and Ishizu in harm's way."

"And you think we'll be okay with leaving you in harm's way?"

"It's different with me. It's my shit." Malik knew that, no matter how bad things were, they'd be infinitely worse if anything happened to Rishid and Ishizu—all because Malik couldn't handle the situation alone. All because he wanted to cower behind the grown-ups, like a fucking child. "No," he said again, even more resolutely. "You'll both stay right where you are, and... let me handle it."

"And how are you going to handle it?"

Malik sighed. "Well, I sort of... have an idea."

There was a short pause from Rishid. "I hope it's not illegal."

Malik chuckled. "Well..."

"Malik," Rishid said warningly.

"Listen. Has Ishizu told you about... About the book they found a couple of months ago? The one they think is—"

"The Millennium Spellbook, yes. I know about it. Ishizu told me you managed to get your hands on some of the pages."

"Yup, and that was the 'illegal' part, I guess. But anyway. The thing is, we know for a fact that it's the Millennium Spellbook, and we are ninety per cent sure that it was deliberately used to bring the yamis back to life."

"How can you be sure? Ishizu said—"

"Bakura can read it." There was silence. "Well, both Bakura and Ryou can read it," Malik amended. And then he told him everything about their Spellbook sessions.

There was a brief silence again, and then Rishid said, "Does Ishizu know about this?"

"...No. To be honest, nobody else does. I mean besides Ryou, Bakura, and me. We've been doing this sort of... secretly."

"You haven't told Pharaoh and the rest of your friends?"

"Nope."

"Why?" Malik could hear a faint suspicion in Rishid's voice.

"Because the others will never trust Bakura, and he's kinda integral to the whole thing, so."

"I don't think you should trust him, either, Malik."

"Yeah, I know what you're thinking, but... He's not the Bakura of the past. He's different. I mean, really different."

"The Thief King is cunny."

Malik let out a short laugh. "You sound like Ryou. He doesn't trust him, either."

"But he works with him?"

"He has to. There's no other way."

Rishid paused again. Malik watched the passers-by walk by the mouth of the alley while waiting for his brother to say something.

"So, this is how you plan to handle the situation?"

"Yeah. We find a way to seal the yamis away, and then I'm free from Mariku. Forever."

"And... The Thief King goes along with that plan? We are talking about his own death."

"Yeah, he's..." Malik hesitated. "He wants it to be that way. He doesn't wanna... stay."

"What about the Pharaoh?"

"Well... I don't know. We'll have to ask him eventually, but... We'll cross that bridge when we get there, I guess."

"And is Mariku aware of this... plan?"

"No. I haven't told him anything. He keeps asking me how he came back, because he knows I know something but I—"

"He doesn't know how he came back?"

"No. And that's why he came to find me. He was looking for answers."

The silence from Rishid's end was the longest one so far. "Malik," he said then, in a tone that betrayed utmost seriousness, "you are telling me you are planning to keep him in the dark until you find a way to kill him, essentially?"

"Well, it sounds weird when you put it that way, but... Yeah. Essentially."

"What if he finds out?"

Malik shifted, uncomfortable. "Well, I've been taking precautions. I haven't told him a thing about the Spellbook, and whenever Ryou brings it over, I lock Mariku in the bedroom."

"You lock him in the bedroom?"

"I know it sounds bad, but—"

"And he goes along with it?"

Malik winced. "Well, he's not too happy about it, but—"

"Malik. If you're not careful, this could go very wrong, very fast."

"And what do you propose I do?"

He heard Rishid huff. "I don't know. But not... this."

"It's not like I can tell him about the Spellbook, or allow him to be around when we translate it."

"Malik, the more you say, the more you convince me that you need us there."

"No! No, I told you... The plan will work. The guys will translate it sooner or later. I just need to find a way to make Ryou agree, and—"

"I thought you said he's already working with the thief?"

"Yeah, um... He was. But he and Bakura had a fight, and now Ryou refuses to see him."

Another brief silence. "It looks like this plan of yours isn't working very well."

"It will work! Ryou is just stubborn. He'll... He'll come around."

"You don't sound very certain."

Malik sighed. "I just need to persuade him. Or find a way for Bakura to apologize."

"I think you should focus on finding a different arrangement. You can't keep locking Mariku up like this and expect things to never go wrong."

He knew Rishid was right. He'd thought of the same thing dozens of times before. If only he could persuade Ryou to meet with Bakura by themselves, the way they did while Malik was away... Then there would be no need for Malik or Mariku to be around, and no one would have to be locked in the bedroom. But that required Ryou to agree to be in the same building as Bakura, for starters. Damn. It felt like they were back to square zero. Thanks for nothing, Bakura.

"Can I ask you a favor?" Malik said.

"Of course."

"Could you... tell Ishizu? I don't think I can say the whole thing twice."

"Sure thing. But don't expect to get out of talking to her. She'll probably call you the moment she hears about it."

Malik smiled. "Well, as long as I won't have to go through the whole story again."

"Stay safe, okay? Try not to..."

"Provoke my yami's wrath?" Malik said, half-joking, half-serious. "I'll try."

"And call me if anything happens. No matter the time."

Malik's smile softened. "Yeah, okay. And, um. Thanks."

"Don't be stupid, little brother." He could hear the smile in Rishid's voice. That line was pure Ishizu: Malik had heard it countless times, with a hundred different iterations.

He chuckled. "Yeah, well. Can't always be the genius of the family, can I?"

He heard Rishid's deep, rumbling chuckle, and a few of the tight muscles around Malik's neck snapped loose. He laughed again, too, mostly out of relief and of an overwhelming sense of comfort. They bid each other goodbye, with Rishid insisting that Malik called him again the moment trouble arose.

When Malik hung up and put the phone back in his pocket, he was feeling less like a wreck and more like his old, confident self. Rishid's point of view had put things into perspective. Now Malik had to find it in him to leave Mariku alone, without supervision or locked doors and bolts. The thought alone was enough to make his stomach turn. What if Mariku hurt someone, or multiple someones? What if he run off and hid, only to attack Malik when he would least expect it? Or something of the sort. The scenarios were endless.

But, on the other hand, repeatedly locking Mariku in the bedroom was a surefire way to make one of these scenarios real. Rishid was right. This was a leap of faith Malik would have to take.

He rubbed the crusty remnants of his tears off his cold cheeks and took the way back home. When he reached his neighborhood, he saw that his apartment building was still standing, with no flames bursting out of the windows and no police cars waiting outside with their sirens blaring. That was a good sign.

He got in and climbed up to the first floor, put his key in the lock and pushed his door open. He didn't know what he expected, but everything was the way he'd left it, more or less: Mariku was sitting on the couch and Bakura was in his usual seat, in the yellow armchair, legs draped over the armrest and facing away from the other yami. Everything else was in order. No blood had been spilled.

Both yamis' gazes snapped to Malik when he walked in, Bakura looking a bit more bad-tempered than usual. "Hey," he said gruffly. In the air was the distinct smell of cigarette smoke.

"Hey." Malik closed the door behind him and took off his jacket. "How did it go?"

"Lovely. Your yami's a chatter," Bakura said.

"Really?"

"He's got plenty of questions."

"But the thief doesn't have many answers," Mariku piped in.

"Do me a favor and shut up," Bakura snapped.

The other yami smirked. It was a god honest smirk, not sinister but rather sly. Malik tensed at once, but there was no threat in Mariku's tone as he said, "The thief has questions, too. About his vessel."

"His name is Ryou," Bakura gritted out, turning to pierce Mariku with a deadly glare. "And shut up."

Malik shifted his legs in a fighting stance, ready for the violence that was sure to erupt, but Mariku let out a sound that Malik could swear was a giggle. A giggle.

"Ry-ou," Mariku said, enunciating slowly. He was looking at Bakura with a look that could only be called mischievous.

Bakura got to his feet. "I'm leaving."

"Hang on," Malik took a step towards him. "We need to talk."

Bakura paused while putting on his jacket to give Malik a serious look. "Yeah, we do."

"About Ry-ou!" Mariku shouted, grinning widely.

Bakura closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to keep his composure.

"Incidentaly, he's right," Malik said.

"Hell yeah, he is," Bakura grumbled. "I'll call you later, okay? Can't stay any longer, or I might throttle him."

Malik had to bite back the urge to tell him that he was free to throttle Mariku if he really wanted to. Instead, he managed a smile. "Alright. Thank you for... Everything."

"Yeah, yeah," Bakura cut across him and marched to the door. "Talk to you later." Slamming the door, he left.

Malik stared at the door for a while, then he turned to his yami, who was still smirking faintly. "What the hell was that about?"

"Oh, nothing." Mariku shrugged. "I just teased the thief a bit."

"You—What?"

Mariku smirked again. "He's touchy about his vessel."

"Ryou?"

"Ah, right. He doesn't like it when I call him 'vessel'."

"Bakura doesn't—?" Malik started, even more perplexed than before, and shook his head as if that would help things make sense. "What?" he said for the umpteenth time.

Mariku simply shrugged and said nothing more.

To recover from the absurdity of what had just transpired, and to rid himself of all the dried up tears and the sweat from his workout, Malik decided to go take a bath. It would be a good test, too. It could be a first attempt at leaving Mariku on his own for a while, even if it would be just for thirty minutes.

He went to his bedroom to grab a clean change of clothes. His yami hadn't disturbed the room much: only the bedcovers were in disarray. Everything else was just the way it always had been. For good measure, Malik hid his trusty lime knife among the clothes he'd take with him in the bathroom, and walked to the living room again, the pile of clothes in his hands. He hesitated for a few beats, looking at his yami. The yami stared back.

"So, um..." Malik started. "I'm gonna take a bath."

The yami's look darkened ever so slightly. "I see." He got to his feet.

"Where are you going?"

"Bedroom."

"No, no," Malik shook his head, "there's no need. You can just... stay here. And, y' know. Chill."

Mariku stared at Malik. "...Here?"

"Yeah." Malik shrugged, trying to look more relaxed than he felt.

The yami kept staring at Malik, brows scrunched together. In the end, he let out a slow, uncertain, "Alright..." and sat back down on the couch.

"Right. So... I'm..." Malik pointed towards the bathroom, wondering why the hell everything had to be so awkward.

Mariku looked at the apartment door. "You're not gonna lock that one?"

"Nah." Without another word, and to save himself from more awkwardness, Malik headed to the bathroom. He left the pile of clothes on the laundry basket and, after a second's deliberation, he locked the bathroom door. He was the one that was locked in this time, not his yami. So, it should be okay. Still, he took the lime knife with him in the shower, placing it on the shampoo rack, where he could have immediate access to it, but no need arose to use it. He took a nice, long bath, got dressed, brushed his hair and his teeth, and everything was still in order. When he unlocked the bathroom door and emerged to the living room, he found his yami lying on the couch, watching TV.

Without disturbing him, Malik went to the kitchen to make dinner. As he was sautéing some mushrooms, he wondered if he should leave Mariku alone for the rest of the night, too. Malik would have to go to the Crow, naturally. Would it be too much to leave his yami on his own for so many hours?

He guessed he could ask Mariku. Yeah, that was it. Malik would do the polite thing and ask. That way, no matter what, the yami wouldn't feel like he was pressured, or forced, to do something.

So, when they sat at the kitchen table to eat their dinner—egg fried rice with mushrooms and peppers—Malik looked at his yami and said, "I gotta leave for work in an hour. You wanna come with me or...?"

Mariku paused, his chopsticks hovering over his bowl. "What?"

Malik repeated the question, hoping that he wasn't making a very stupid mistake.

Mariku frowned. It seemed it was all he was doing around Malik. "You mean... I don't have to come with you?"

"Not if you don't want to."

The yami's look turned suspicious. "You're gonna lock me in if I don't come with you?"

"No. I won't lock you anywhere. I'm just asking if you want to come. I have to go, either way."

"Will the thief come back to watch me?"

"Nope."

Mariku contemplated it for a couple of very long minutes. He still looked like he was trying to find the catch. "Why don't I have to come with you anymore?"

Malik shrugged. "I just don't think that the previous arrangement was working for us. So why not try something else?"

"Huh," Mariku said. He looked down at his bowl, combing through his rice with his chopsticks, thinking. They both ate their rice without talking. When they were halfway through, the yami lifted his head and said, clearly and slowly, as if he had been thinking about it for a long time, "I think I'm gonna stay here."

Something inside Malik unwinded in relief, while some other part of him clenched in nervousness. "Alright," he said.


Bakura was racking his brains to find some way to apologize to Ryou which wouldn't include actually talking to him. Or looking at him. Or coming face to face with him. Something like an I'm sorry card might be a good idea, if it weren't so lame and half-hearted. And yet, Bakura found himself in a bookstore, perusing through their collection of printed cards. They were full of cartoon puppies with sad eyes and funky colors. Some even had hearts drawn on. Eugh.

He didn't think Ryou would appreciate something like that, so he left without so much as sparing a look at the clerk that kept asking if he needed help. He stepped out on the sidewalk, pushing his fists in his pockets and twisting his mouth.

Maybe he should get Ryou something that he liked. Which bore the question... What did Ryou like?

Bakura's first impulse was to say Nothing, or I have no fucking idea, but that would be a disgrace to his observation skills. He was the goddamn Thief King, and he'd been at Ryou's place more than once. Surely he must have picked up some useful information. He just had to actually think about it. Normally, the things he paid attention to were valuable objects, points of entrance and egress, blind spots and weak security points—and, sometimes, possible hiding places of, let's say, a safe or a stash of cash. In Ryou's place there's hadn't really been any valuable objects, and he really doubted his hidden cash was worth stealing—if he even had any. But, surely, if he put his mind to it, Bakura would be able to conjure up more information; less vital, maybe, for a thief, but vital for apology purposes.

So. What did Ryou like?

There'd been stacks of CDs at his place, so he obviously liked music. Bakura did not remember any of the artists' names on them, but he could recall the general feel. He remembered a CD with rough guitars, and another one with a somber piano.

Alright, music. What else?

There had been posters of horror movies on the walls. Plenty of books on the shelves. Many miniatures and crafting materials.

If he were to get Ryou something, he should buy him something that he liked, or... Something useful. Something he didn't already have. Like... new shoes. Damn, those old raggedy things Ryou wore were ready to fall apart. Bakura could get him new ones—and the best thing was, he knew exactly what Ryou's shoe size was.

Pleased with himself, he got in a shoe store and looked for a pair of white sneakers that were as close to the ones Ryou had been wearing as possible, to make sure that he'd like them. If it were up to Bakura, he'd buy Ryou a pair of sturdy leather combat boots, but this wasn't about him.

He found a pair he was happy with, tried it on, and then he took it to the cash register. He was ready to hand out the sneakers to the smiling cashier, when a disturbing thought crossed his mind.

What if Ryou found this... patronizing? What if he thought Bakura was mocking him, flaunting the fact that he had money to spare?

It was possible. Ryou always assumed the worst, after all.

Damn. He would have to consult Malik before buying anything.

"Um... Sir?" The cashier said, still smiling.

Bakura looked at her, the box of shoes still in his hands. Without another word, he left the box on the counter and dashed out of the store, ignoring the cashier who shouted at him again.

Once he was out in the street, he took out his phone.

"Malik," he said the moment the Tomb-Keeper picked up, "how do you think Ryou will react if I buy him new shoes?"

"What—Shoes? What are you talking about?"

"Shoes, Malik. Sneakers. What do you think?"

"Why buy him shoes?"

Bakura bit the inside of his cheek. "To apologize."

There were a few beats of silence. Then Malik sighed, rather theatrically. "Bakura... No. That's not the way to go about it. After all, Ryou would hate that. He hates it when I try to buy him things, he thinks it's demeaning—"

"Yeah, I thought so." Bakura huffed. "So what do I do? Should I buy him a card?"

"A card?" Malik burst out laughing. "What is this, grade school?"

"As if you'd know. You've never been to grade school."

"First off, ouch. And secondly, I know enough to tell you that cards are kinda... juvenile. Come on. No one really does that."

"Then why do they sell so many cards with 'I'm sorry' and 'Forgive me' and... You know, sad puppies and the like?"

"You've done your research, I see. Anyway, that's for people with no taste. Or with no guts to actually apologize to the other's face."

"Well, I can't apologize to his face! He doesn't wanna see me!"

Malik sighed again, this time more genuinely. "Give me some time, okay? I'm trying to figure this out."

"Fine," Bakura said. Then he thought about it. "But, would a card really hurt—?"

"For fuck's sake, Bakura. I gotta go. Come by the Crow later if you wanna talk."

"Alright, alright."

"'Kay, see ya."

Bakura hung up. Alright, so no buying Ryou things. Damn, his landlord was a tough case.

What else could Bakura get him that he didn't already have?

Well... He knew for a fact that Ryou no longer had a pocket knife. And he happened to know just where Ryou's old pocket knife was: in his jacket's left pocket, a few inches away from where his hand currently was.

Maybe he was going about it the wrong way. Maybe this wasn't about getting Ryou something new, but giving him back what was his. Ryou had said it himself, after all. He'd said 'I want back the life you stole from me.' It was a difficult request, but maybe Bakura could start with the knife.

He didn't want to part with it. He'd carried on him for so long, he knew his pockets would feel too light without it. He'd memorized the shape, the ridges on the handle, the slight curve of the blade. It fit in his palm perfectly.

He would be able to find other knives to replace it, but he already knew it wouldn't be the same. He didn't know if the fact that it was Ryou's had anything to do with it, but—

It was Ryou's. It wasn't Bakura's. He had to give it back. And giving it back even though he'd much rather keep it for himself had to count for something, right? It had to count as good-guy behavior.

He hoped it would.

Gritting his teeth, he made for Ryou's neighborhood. He stroked the knife with his thumb on the way there, as if to bid it goodbye. Was it stupid to grow so attached to a simple object? It probably was. Good thing that he had to answer to no one.

A couple of blocks away from Ryou's place, he stopped at a convenience store. He bought some tobacco and asked for a pen and a piece of paper. Then he took these to a corner in the shop, rolled a cigarette, caught it between his lips without lighting it and looked at the paper in front of him.

A hand-written note would be better than a store-bought card, right?

He picked up the pen. He stood with the tip hovering over the paper for a while, thinking of what would be the best thing to write. Words had never been his forte, so in the end he wrote a simple I'm sorry. He wrote slowly, feeling awkward, as if his hand was untrained to the movement. And then it hit him. This was the first time he was attempting to write something ever since his rebirth. No, scratch that—it was the first time he'd written something in millennia. Back when he was in the Ring, he'd let Ryou do all the writing, the homework, the paperwork, you name it. And, before that... Back in Egypt, he hadn't known how to read. Or write.

So, this made it... The first time he had written something, ever. First words he'd ever put to paper and, boy, was it underwhelming. Was this his handwriting? It looked more like a scrawl. Nothing like Ryou's elegant characters.

He stared at it for a while like a man in trance, and then he snapped out of it. He folded the note and put it in his pocket, next to the knife. He returned the pen to the cashier—more good-guy behavior—and left the store.

Now for the actual hard part: following through with the deed.

At this hour of the day, Ryou would probably be at work, which was ideal. Getting in the building wouldn't be hard. He wouldn't get in Ryou's apartment, though; not this time. He wanted to appease Ryou, not infuriate him further.

He reached the familiar street and lifted his gaze up to Ryou's windows. The curtains were drawn. Bakura slid into the side-alley and kept watching the building for a while, to make sure Ryou was indeed away. Not that it mattered much, since Bakura was planning to get only as far as the doorstep, but... Coming face to face with Ryou right outside his door would be awkward. He would like to avoid that.

After several minutes of observation, Bakura made his move. He walked up to the building's entrance, looked at the row of doorbells and the little name tags, and pressed one at random. No one answered. He tried another one. On his fourth try, a voice finally crackled through the intercom.

"Hello?"

Tapping into the pretense skills left over from his Zorc days, Bakura said the thing that was most likely to get him in. "Good morning, sir. I am here for the elevator maintenance."

"Oh, finally!" And they buzzed Bakura in.

Bingo, Bakura thought as he pushed the door open. That resident was bound for disappointment the next time he called the elevator and realized that it was still very much out of service.

Bakura ran up the five flights of stairs, noting with satisfaction that he was barely out of breath when he reached the fifth floor landing. His workouts were paying off.

Ryou's peeling green door stared at him in the half-light of the landing. Bakura took a step towards it. He took a deep breath in. Let it out slowly.

Well. He was here. Time to do the thing.

He reached into his pocket and took out Ryou's knife. He turned it over in his hand, unfolded the blade to watch it gleam in the faint light, and folded it again. Feeling a slight clenching sensation in his chest, he stooped and placed the knife in the center of Ryou's doormat, carefully, as if it were a living thing. Then he straightened and took out the note. He unfolded it and looked at his roughly-written apology. It seemed so... little. Insubstantial. Stupid, too, probably. Maybe Malik would also call this juvenile.

For a reason that he couldn't exactly specify, Bakura felt ashamed of himself. He crumpled the note in his fist and shoved it back into his pocket. Malik had been right: this wasn't the way to do it. Maybe someday Bakura would grow the balls to apologize to Ryou's face. Until then... He'd stay silent.

He would leave the knife, though. The knife was Ryou's. He'd leave it there, with no note or explanation. There wasn't one needed, really. Bakura was just returning it.

He took one last look at the tiny object that now lay in the center of the doormat, heaved out a sigh, and turned his back to it, heading back the way he'd come. His pockets were already feeling strangely empty.

But it was for the better. He'd just done a good-guy deed.


So Yuugi had to call Anzu. It was easy. He could do it. He'd done it a million times before—so what was one more added to the list?

He stared at his phone screen, which had gone dark while he'd been standing there, contemplating it.

He was in his office, the door locked for good measure. He didn't want anyone to disrupt him during this particular phonecall. If he ever decided to call.

"Come oooon," he said to himself, gripping the phone tighter. He took a deep breath. Okay, in and out. It would be quick, like activating a trap card.

He hit the call button.

"Yuugi?" Anzu said the moment she picked up.

"Hey, Anzu." After a small round of painfully awkward pleasantries, he said, "Listen... I want to ask you a favor."

Anzu said nothing while Yuugi explained everything about the foreign CEO and his boss's request. Once Yuugi was done, there were a few seconds of silence. "So... Let me get this straight. You want me to come with you to this dinner and act like..."

More silence. Nobody really knew how to continue that sentence. Act like we're not breaking up or like we're still happily married both sounded like a punch in the gut.

"It's just a dinner," he said in the end. "We just have to act... professionally."

"I see. Is that all you wanted to tell me?"

Yuugi bit his lip. "Yeah."

"Oh... Because I was sort of waiting for a different phonecall."

Yuugi squeezed his eyes shut. He knew what she'd been waiting for. "I know. And I know I'm asking a lot, but this is very important—"

"Okay."

Yuugi blinked. "What?"

"I said okay. I'll do it," Anzu said.

She'd agreed to each much faster than Yuugi had expected. Hoping he hadn't just made a very stupid mistake, he said, "That's so kind of you. Thank you so much, Anzu."

"Don't thank me. We're together through thick and thin, right?"

Yuugi didn't know what to say. He had no idea if Anzu meant that they were together as friends or as a couple. And this didn't seem like the appropriate moment to clarify it. They would have that conversation after the dinner.

"Yeah," he said through a tight throat. "Right."

Gods, what a mess.

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Author's note: Sorry for the hiatus, guys. In the past months I've been working non-stop on my thesis. Good news is I'm finally done and I'll get my degree soon, so now I'll have a lot more time to dedicate to my fanfic.