The Last Puzzle

by tenderwulf

11 years after the Ceremonial Duel, the yamis inexplicably return to Domino and their hikaris' lives, but not everyone is happy about it. Things have changed, and finding a place in this world is not that simple. Soon they set out to solve the mystery of their return; some in order to make sure that they stay, and some to make sure that they don't. [puzzleshipping, tendershipping]

28. We are not the same

T.W.: This chapter contains talk of death and suicide, suicidal ideation, and mentions of disordered eating due to depression. Those of you who are troubled by these, care for yourself while reading.

Chapter 28: We are not the same

Atem sat staring at his phone long after the screen had gone dark.

It was too early for Yuugi's dinner to be over. But... Yuugi had sounded happy on the phone. Excited. So, the dinner was probably over—and, apparently, it had gone well.

Atem set his phone down, next to the book he had been trying—and failing—to read as he waited for the day to pass. The dark screen mirrored the light of the reading lamp. Somewhere overhead, a water pipe gurgled.

He had to think fast and find an excuse to explain why there was no Mr Sakamoto around, and why Atem was sitting all by himself in a dark bookstore. He had thought he'd brave this horrible day by sitting here alone in the peace and quiet. He had wanted to prepare himself mentally before going back home and facing Yuugi—before hearing him say how well the dinner had gone, how many contracts he would sign, how much Anzu's presence had helped; how Yuugi had realized how much he needed her, and how he'd changed his mind and would do the logical, wise thing to do: get back with her and start anew. Make a family, and all that.

Which was exactly what Atem wanted for Yuugi, right? His partner deserved a life full of love and success and stability. And respect. Yuugi had worked hard for all of this. He deserved it.

Atem swallowed around a dry knot. He wasn't ready yet. He had thought he'd have a couple more hours to think and maybe plan. No matter what Yuugi told him, Atem would have to appear happy for him and congratulate him. And, for Ra's sake, he had to not let him see how Atem was crumbling inside. He had to do it, for Yuugi. Atem was, after all, a man long dead. His heart and lungs and brain had been ripped out of him a long time ago, had turned to dust in jars a thousand times over. This pain he was feeling was but a spectre; it would disappear when he disappeared. But Yuugi would remain, alive, red-cheeked, smiling. Happy, as he should be.

Atem rubbed his eyes. He had to get it together. It was important to face this like a king: stoic and steady. For Yuugi's sake.

His gaze travelled from his phone to the floor, out of the sole pool of orange lamp-light, across the shadows, past dark bookcases and mounds of books, to the foggy display windows and the street beyond. A weak, blueish light was filtering in through the glass, turning the display objects into frigid ghosts. Atem had been sitting in the same spot for hours, leaning one elbow on Mr Sakamoto's desk, sometimes tapping his fingers on the weathered wood, sometimes picking up his book only to put it back down. As morning had turned into afternoon and then into evening, he hadn't moved to turn on the lights. He had only turned on the tattered old reading lamp that was on the desk, within arm's reach. The darkness had deepened, and the orange light had flickered, and Atem had sat there, silent and still.

He wasn't ready yet. Would he ever be? How many hours of sitting alone and thinking would it take for him to make peace with giving up Yuugi? He ran his fingers through his hair, arranged some tufts to make them presentable. And then he did what he'd been doing all day: he waited.

The shop's front window was on the same level as the street. Atem could see the legs of passers-by up to the knees, coat hemlines, shopping bags swinging by and, once, a stray cat that slinked across the street and disappeared. The clock kept ticking the seconds away.

He had seen countless legs pass in front of that window; nameless beings hurrying along, or strolling, alone or in groups, loitering, rushing, pausing, turning back where they had come from and, eventually, all of them without exceptions, disappearing. And he had stood there, watching those lives pass by, hearing the clock, and waiting. So, when a familiar pair of legs ran across the length of the window, with the dark fabric of a coat flapping around them, Atem tensed; his fingers tightened around the corner of the book he was not reading. Of course he recognized Yuugi at once. And, a second later, when the door squeaked open and the little bell tinkled, Atem was not taken aback. When Yuugi ran down the steps into the shop, Atem was not taken aback; he was taken aback by the expression on his face, the wide smile, the red cheeks and nose, the gleaming, glittering, shining eyes, the smile. The smile, the smile, the smile.

"Atem!" Yuugi cried. Behind him, the door swung shut with a rattle of metal and glass.

Atem got to his feet, carefully, as if a void had just opened up right beyond his toes.

Yuugi walked towards him in a flurry of coat fabric and scarf ends, taking off his gloves without stopping, looking around, still smiling. Smiling. He paused inside Atem's private pool of light, still looking around as he stuffed his gloves in his coat pocket. "Are you alone? Where's Mr Sakamoto?"

"He left a short while ago," Atem lied.

"Oh. Cool." Yuugi shrugged off his scarf and coat and dropped them on an antique, green velvet armchair. "Are you hungry? I'm starving. Wanna go grab a bite?"

Something wasn't making sense. Yuugi still had that incandescent air of joy about him, smiling like the happiest person in the world.

"Didn't you just have dinner?" Atem asked.

"Umm... No, not really. I didn't eat much," Yuugi said, shrugging with playful indifference.

The gesture was an invitation, telling Atem, Come on, ask me why. So he did, even though this was the moment he'd dreaded all day. "What do you mean? What happened?"

Yuugi's smile, impossibly, got wider. "I quit."

The word dropped like a pebble, tiny, making no echo. Atem wondered if he had imagined it.

"What?"

"I quit my job. I quit." And there wasn't just joy in Yuugi's smile anymore; there was also excitement, and expectancy, and maybe a bit of uncertainty. He was looking at Atem with that smile, waiting for him to react. To say something.

Atem turned the words over and over in his mind, examining them from every angle, trying to determine if they were true; if all of this was true; if Yuugi was even there or if Atem had conjured everything up after a long day of waiting and fearing and waiting.

"You—what?"

"I quit, Atem. I quit my job. It's over. I even called my boss and told him. I'm outta there." From somewhere in the folds of Yuugi's discarded coat, his phone started ringing. Yuugi rolled his eyes, still smiling. "That's probably him. He hasn't stopped calling me."

Atem felt lost. The void yawned by his feet. Surely there was some catch to it all. "Why did you quit? How? And—What about Anzu? What—What happened?"

"Do you really need to ask why? Isn't it obvious?" Yuugi sat down onto the free chair by the desk, the one Mr Sakamoto usually occupied, and looked up at Atem like a teacher disappointed that his student didn't get the easiest question in the test.

"But... That was what you wanted. It was your dream." It was what you always wanted, Atem repeated inwardly, nearly desperately.

"I don't know what that was, but it wasn't my dream," Yuugi replied. "And I wasn't happy. I finally admitted I would never be happy unless I changed something. So I did the only thing I could think of. I quit."

Yuugi's phone stopped ringing. Things still weren't making sense. "So—you didn't go to the dinner?" Atem asked.

"Oh no, I went to the dinner alright." Ηe gave Atem an impish look, and he was sixteen-years-old Yuugi again, sneaking Duel Monsters cards in math class and whispering jokes to his Puzzle. "You should have seen me. Everybody was talking, the Goldners were asking all kinds of stuff, Anzu was making up things on the spot, until I stood up, in the middle of it all, and I said it. I said I'm done. Just like that. And I left."

"You left... in the middle of dinner?"

Yuugi nodded. "Yup. And I called my boss at once. No going back." His phone started ringing again. He ignored it. Atem struggled to ignore it, too.

"Yuugi. Did you think this through? Did you think about—your reputation, and—your career and—"

"You think I didn't? I've thought about it all a hundred times over. And I reached a point where I don't care."

The phone kept ringing.

Atem couldn't get it. He couldn't. "But—you had what you always wanted."

Yuugi was looking at him, no longer smiling. He was as serious as Atem had ever seen him. "No. I wasn't sure what I wanted before. But I finally am. I want this," Yuugi gestured between them. "I want to be able to be with you, make up for all the lost years. To share with you everything I wished I could share before. I wanna play games with you, and travel with you, and see the world and eat all the weird food and try out the weirdest, most obscure games from every corner of the earth. And I wanna design my games, based on my ideas, even if no one plays them, without caring about a company's profile, or profits, or whatever. And I want to be able to see my friends and have fun with them. I want to be able to dye my hair all the colors of the rainbow, and I want to never wear a suit again. I want to dig my chokers out of my drawer, and build my deck from scratch. I want to duel again, and take part in tournaments. And I want to get out of that awful apartment. I want to be myself again."

The phone finally fell silent.

Atem didn't speak. Everything in him, even his pulse, had hushed, to better hear Yuugi and soak in his words. I want this, he'd said.

I want this.

"Yuugi," Atem said, his voice grave with the weight of a king's responsibility, "I want you to be happy. And I want you to be well, no matter what. Which is why I worry—"

"Oh, come on, 'tem," Yuugi rolled his eyes.

"—which is why I worry," Atem went on, firmly, "that this might have more severe repercussions that you think. There's—There's no guarantee you'll get to do all these things you dream of. Without a stable income, and without—"

"Don't you get it, Atem? There are never any guarantees. Ever. So I'd rather take my chances. That way I'll have a shot at being actually happy." A grin broke the firmness of Yuugi's face. "I believe in the heart of the cards I'm dealt."

Atem couldn't help but chuckle. Words from another conversation flitted through his mind: Jounouchi's voice, saying, It's no good spending your days worrying about something that may never happen.

"I can see you're worried. It's fine," Yuugi said. "I can't say I'm not a little afraid myself, too. But it's the good kind of fear. And it's been a while since I've felt that."

"But... What about Anzu?"

Yuugi's smile turned a little guilty. "Oh, uh... Right. I forgot to mention, uh... That's over. For good."

Atem's stomach did a flip. "What?"

Yuugi rubbed the back of his head and shrugged, which was the classic awkward Yuugi gesture. He looked guilty but pleased with himself, like a naughty child. "Yeah... You might say it was a bit insensitive, but. I sorta did it during the dinner. After I said I quit. I took off my ring and left it on the table. It's over."

"You—What?"

"Yeah, dick move, I know. Anyway. Now that that's out of the way..." Yuugi got to his feet, to bring himself level to Atem, who was still standing. He crossed his arms across his chest, eyeing Atem firmly. "I've been meaning to ask you for ages. What is your problem?"

Atem gulped down a breath. He was still processing the news about Anzu—his eyes darted to Yuugi's left hand, and sure enough, no ring was there—and he was reeling, it was all too much and at the same time not enough, he needed to know more, and now that question. The question. What is your problem?

"What?" he managed to breathe. So much for the king's stature.

"You heard me. What is. Your. Problem?"

"I..." Atem swallowed. "I don't get what you mean."

"You've been avoiding me for days. Don't deny it. And you stopped calling me aibou. So, what's up?"

Yuugi was unwavering. He leaned with his hip against Mr Sakamoto's desk, the light of the sole lamp dancing in his eyes. He looked glorious and terrible, half his face bathed in orange, half of it in blue shadows.

Atem couldn't reply. He couldn't say the truth.

But he left his ring on the table. It's over with Anzu.

It didn't matter. He couldn't say it; not now, not when the future was spreading before his feet so full of promise, with the possibility of spending endless golden days with Yuugi. He couldn't risk spoiling it.

But he had said it. Yuugi had said it. 'I want this', he'd said; 'I want to be able to be with you.'

He didn't mean it like this, Atem told himself.

He's your friend. Your best friend. Don't ruin this; not now.

Alright, then. A half-truth would be good enough—better than no truth at all.

"I was afraid... I was a bad influence. And I feared I'd let my own feelings and... opinions... dictate my advice to you. And that wasn't fair. To you. I wanted to give you space to... To figure out what you want."

"Alright. You gave me space. And I figured it out. So, are we cool now? Can this stupidity stop?" Yuugi's eyes were spitting sparks; the orange light intensified the impression.

On one hand, yes, Atem wanted nothing more than for this stupidity to stop. He ached to call Yuugi aibou, and smile to him; and sit close to him on the couch, watching movies; and laugh; and maybe fall asleep next to each other; and so, so much more. He ached to do things that would definitely ruin their friendship; and some part of him wanted it too bad to care; and another part of him cared, cared too much, and wouldn't even dream of doing something that would jeopardize this friendship.

He tried to smile. "Yes, I think I had enough of this stupidity, too."

Yuugi sighed. The exhale took with it all the tension out of him, and his body relaxed, sinking against the desk. He smiled. "Good. So. How about burgers?"

---

Atem was still reeling half an hour later, sitting across from Yuugi in a joint downtown. Yuugi was biting into his burger and humming in relish, while Atem chewed on a single fry, slowly, as if eating demanded an extraordinary amount of concentration.. He hadn't touched his own burger yet.

The joint around them was loud, the nice kind of loud, and warm. Yuugi's smile had returned and looked like it would never fade. It was all so perfect it was hard to believe.

Don't ruin this, Atem told himself.

...But Yuugi had said, I want this. He had broken up with Anzu for good.

A sly, wily what if crept its way into Atem's thoughts, and it made him stare at Yuugi a little more intently, trying to discern something that might or might not be there.

Don't be stupid, Atem thought to himself. He should stop thinking like that.

"Oh, right," Yuugi mumbled suddenly. He swallowed a huge mouthful. "Ryou called. He said Bakura agreed to meet you."

Atem stopped picking at his fries. It took him a second to register what Yuugi was talking about, because his mind was still caught up in the whole this-is-perfect-don't-spoil-this thing. "He did?" he asked, even though he did not feel nearly as surprised as he thought he would. Compared to the rest of the night's shocks, this one was rather mild. Welcomed, even. An easier subject to focus on.

Yuugi, who was fighting with another huge bite of burger, nodded. After he swallowed, he said, "Yeah. Apparently, Ryou convinced him. They asked when you want to meet."

"Oh." Atem hadn't thought about this at all. "Um. Whenever is fine with me." After a small pause, where he stared at his burger without making any move to pick it up, he asked, "Where should we meet? What do you think?"

Yuugi shrugged. "My place?"

"Wouldn't it be better if we met somewhere else? A café, maybe? You know... for safety reasons."

"Safety?"

"I'm not sure I want the Thief King to know where you live."

Yuugi let out a snort. "I think that it won't be too hard for him to find out where I live, if he really wants to. And anyway. I don't want you to be out in public when you two meet, or there's a high chance we'll end up seeing your faces in the news."

"I can behave. Now, if he can't—"

Yuugi laughed again. "See? You're all riled up already. Relax. It will be fine."

"How can you be so certain?"

"He hasn't tried any funny shit all this time. I dunno... If he wanted to harm you, or me, or any one of us, I think he'd done it by now."

"This might be the chance he was waiting for."

"This was your idea, remember?"

"I never said I won't meet him. Just... Not with you in harm's way."

Yuugi smiled at him; a soft, soft thing. "It will be fine. C'me on." He lowered his voice, leaning a bit towards Atem. "I think it's the wise thing to do. I don't want us to talk about magic and the Spellbook out in public."

Atem huffed. Yuugi had a point, yes, but... "Can't we meet at Ryou's place? Or Malik's?"

"Their apartments are way too small. They'd never fit all of us."

"Kaiba's office, then. Something."

"Seto said he's done with the Spellbook business. Plus, I think he's out of town."

Atem scowled, but he was forced to admit defeat. "Alright. If we have no other choice..."

"It will be fine, Atem. Relax." Then Yuugi giggled. "You know what won't be fine, probably? Me, going to work tomorrow."

Atem forgot all about Bakura in an instant. "Wait, what do you mean? You still have to go to work?" When Yuugi nodded, Atem said, "But you quit!"

"That's how these things work, Atem. When you announce that you quit, it's not an instantaneous thing. It's more of a... notice. A two-weeks' notice. It means that you're giving your boss two weeks to wrap up existing projects and fully replace you."

"You mean you'll have to go to work for two more weeks?"

Yuugi smiled wistfully. "I guess I don't really have to. What is Mr Iwata gonna do, fire me?" When Atem didn't laugh, Yuugi went on. "But I want to go. I owe it to my team. I wanna help them tie up any loose threads and train the one that'll replace me."

"But—"

Atem couldn't really argue with that, nor did he wish to. This was who Yuugi was: kind-hearted, always looking out for his friends and teammates. And Atem wouldn't change that for the world. And if he was a bit disappointed that he wouldn't get to spend tomorrow with Yuugi, or the day after tomorrow, or the day after that... Well, he didn't have to show it. He would only have to be patient for two weeks. He could wait two weeks. He could wait for another three thousand years, if he had to. It was fine.

Atem smiled. "Walking in there tomorrow is bound to be awkward."

Yuugi laughed. "I know, right?"

---

Yuugi felt lighter than air as Atem and he walked back home. The city was different around him: clear, alight, sharp. He loved everything. The signs, the shapes of the building, the streets, all of them so familiar, everything brimming with possibilities, every corner an adventure, every light a friendly nod. The whole world was an arena and he was free to play to his heart's content. Free. He could hardly believe it.

He skipped a couple of paces ahead and then turned around to beam at Atem. "Hey, Atem?" he said with a small giggle. He kept walking backwards, looking at his yami's still dumbstruck face.

"What is it, aibou?" Atem said, guarded, and Yuugi laughed then, because it was too good to bear: Atem was there, and was calling him aibou again, and they were together with nothing standing in their way.

"Can you believe it? I'm free!" Yuugi said and laughed again.

A faint smile appeared on Atem's face. The look he gave Yuugi was soft with wonder, and warm, so warm. Yuugi could watch him gaze at him like that for hours. For the whole night. Forever. Of the whole city around him, nothing felt more real and more wonderful than Atem.

Laughing again, Yuugi skipped closer and wrapped his arm around Atem's shoulders, squeezing. "I'm free!" he repeated, and it didn't matter that Atem still looked a bit numb and uncertain. It would all sink in eventually. They had all the time in the world.

When they reached his apartment, Yuugi took a good look around, still smiling. "You know, we'll probably have to move out soon." Saying that didn't bother him one bit.

"Yes, I thought so, too," Atem said.

"Honestly, I won't mind."

Atem gave a quiet laugh. "Me neither."

Yuugi didn't feel like sleeping, and he almost suggested that Atem and he camp out in the living room and watch movies and play games all night long. But they would both have to go to work in the morning and, even though Yuugi didn't care about his job anymore, he didn't want to drag Atem down with him.

Then he thought of inviting Atem to come and sleep with him, and he opened his mouth to say so, but an inexplicable nervousness made him swallow his words. It would probably sound weird if he said that out loud. They weren't teenagers anymore. And he didn't want to make Atem uncomfortable. So he didn't say anything.

Still, when they finally went to bed, Yuugi's heart skipped a beat when he saw Atem leave the guest room door open. Atem paused at the doorway and gave Yuugi a smile. "See you in the morning, aibou."

Yes, it would all be okay now.

---

Going to work the following morning was almost surreal. On a surface level, everything was the same: he woke up, had breakfast and coffee with Atem, and took the bus to the office. When he got there, he stood for a bit at the foot of the tall, glistening building, wondering if the news had spread by now. He didn't know if he wanted to laugh or turn on his heel and run away.

As it turned out, the news had, indeed, spread. Yuugi's arrival sparked a buzz that spread from the entrance to all the floors. People swarmed Yuugi the moment he appeared, and everybody had a question to ask—mainly, different version of the question What the hell happened?

Yuugi was prepared for it, and it was fine. He knew what to say to calm them down and reassure them that he would prepare them as best as possible for his absence, gracefully shutting down the most personal questions. Until Mr Iwata appeared.

"Ah, Mutou!" Iwata exclaimed, marching towards Yuugi. Oddly enough, he was smiling. "I got word you arrived. Do you have a moment? Excuse us," Mr Iwata nodded to the surrounding crowd.

This wasn't the sort of welcome he expected from his boss, but Yuugi followed him to his office, distantly amused.

Mr Iwata kept smiling in what he probably thought was a pleasant manner. "Come in, come in! Please, sit," he said, gesturing to one of the chairs in front of his desk, his voice saccharine-sweet.

Yuugi sat in the offered chair.

"Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea?" Mr Iwata said quickly. A bit of nervousness started showing through his smile. Yuugi almost felt sorry for the man.

"No, thank you."

"Ah, well, that's fine." Iwata wiped his palms on his suit and sat down in his massive leather chair. "So. Mutou... Mutou, Mutou."

Yuugi looked at him, waiting.

Iwata cleared his throat. "So... About yesterday. I realize that it was a time of stress, and you've been under a lot of pressure lately. It's understandable. I'm more than willing to overlook yesterday's little, ehm... incident, and move on with our collaboration—"

"Mr Iwata, let me stop you right there," Yuugi said, firmly. "I meant every word I said. My resignation still stands. I'm here to fulfill my two-week resignation period, and to prepare my team for my absence."

Mr Iwata's smile widened. "I see, I see. But I want to ask you to reconsider. Such decisions should not be taken rashly—"

"It wasn't rash. I really think it is the right thing for me to do, at this time of my life."

"There seems to be some kind of discontent from your side. I'm willing to change that. I'll be frank, Mutou: I don't want to lose you. Nobody in their right minds would let the King of Games walk away! So... Name your price. Or state your terms. Anything you want."

Of course it would come to that. This explained Iwata's smile and good manners. Yuugi couldn't say he was surprised.

"With all due respect, Mr Iwata, I don't think there's anything you can offer me that will make me change my mind."

"I'll give you a generous raise, Mutou. And double the days off." Mr Iwata's smile took a frantic edge.

Yuugi shook his head. "It's not about the money—"

"You'll have more creative freedom in all projects, starting from the current one. That's what this is about, right? Well, I'll be more than happy to—"

Yuugi shook his head again. "That's not enough for me anymore."

"Well, then, how about that. Apart from the company's big projects, you'll be free to have a personal side project, with complete creative freedom. You'll get to pick your own team of designers, and we'll simply provide the funds. No restrictions. You'll be free to do whatever you want. How does that sound?"

That sounded like every game designer's dream. At any other given time, it would have sounded damn enticing to Yuugi, too. But that was the thing. He was past that. He no longer needed Iwata to give him the freedom, as if he were doing him a favor.

"That is a very generous offer," Yuugi said, "and I know of many talented designers in your company who would love an opportunity like that. I can give you a list, if you want—"

Iwata slammed his hand on his desk. "I don't want a damn list! I want you in my company!"

"I'm sorry, but I've made my decision."

Iwata's nostrils flared as he huffed. Now that the smile and the pretense of sweetness was gone, it was obvious he was furious. "And where do you think that decision will lead you? Think logically, Mutou. You have a career others would kill for, and you're kicking it away? For what? You're cleverer than this."

"If my position is so sought after, then I'm sure you'll be able to find a competent replacement in no time—"

"You think you can make it on your own, then, is that it? You think your name will be enough to open all doors for you? Well let me tell you, this right here is the best you can hope for, Mutou. You'd better open your eyes and see it."

Yuugi stared at Iwata. So, after the sweet-talking came the intimidation. At least now the masks were off. "I think I'll take my chances."

"For how much longer do you think you'll be able to rely on this King of Games schtick? That's all you are, Mutou: a title. You'd better realize your expiration date is coming fast."

Yuugi gazed at Iwata, unruffled. "Then why do you want to keep me around so badly?"

Iwata shot to his feet, slamming his palm on the desk once again. "I'm doing you a favor, and you'd better appreciate that! You think you'll have any chances out there? You think other companies will bend over backwards to get you? You're a second-rate designer, at best, and everybody knows that! The only reason I kept you around is so I could put that King of Games signature on my game boxes, and even that won't sell after a while! For how long do you think you'll get to cash in on your past glory? You haven't dueled publicly in years, and it's been nearly a decade since you last participated in a tournament. Everybody says that Seto Kaiba can wipe the floor with you now! He's kept up with the game, while you haven't touched a deck in years! You're hardly relevant anymore and soon you won't be at all! So, take the chance that's being offered to you and. Be. Grateful. For it!" Iwata almost spat the last words, leaning over the desk to loom over Yuugi. His face had turned red, neck muscles and veins straining against the collar of his shirt.

"Aha," Yuugi said, deadpan. "Sounds like you should be grateful that I'm giving you the chance to be rid of me."

Iwata puffed up like an angry bird. "Get off your high horse, Mutou. You should be begging me to forgive yesterday's stunt! Do you have any idea what it cost me? What it cost this company?"

"I will pay for the dinner, if that is the problem."

"To hell with the dinner!" Iwata roared. "I lost a big collaboration! I refuse to lose my head designer, too!"

"A head designer that's 'second-rate, at best'? Doesn't sound like a big loss."

"Don't you mock me, Mutou. You seem to forget that you can't just up and leave! Or shall I remind you of your contract?" A triumphant glint appeared in Iwata's eyes. "If you break the terms, I'll have every right to sue you. When I'm done with you, you won't have a penny left to your name. Still think it's worth it?"

Yuugi straightened his back. "You are asking me if it's worth leaving the company of someone who threatens and belittles me? Of someone who sees me just as nothing but a title? Of someone who thinks my freedom is theirs to graciously offer or withhold? Because, if that is the question, then yes, I think it's worth it."

Iwata seemed to draw back an inch, then he puffed up again. "Your contract clearly states that, if you leave while the development of a game is in progress, you will have to reimburse the company of all the money that's already gone into the project, as well as the estimated losses, plus the agreed-upon fine for breaking the—"

"I am aware of my contract terms, thank you," Yuugi replied coldly. "My lawyer will be in touch with you soon, even though I'm fairly sure I can pay what's required of me, since the project we are currently working on is new. As for the estimated losses, there won't be many, since I'll be here for the next two weeks and adequately prepare all my colleagues to carry on the project by themselves. Are you sure you don't want a list of your most skilled designers? I have a couple in mind who are more than competent enough to replace me."

Iwata opened his mouth, then closed it again. After a couple of seconds, he said, calmer than before, "You'll regret this, Mutou. Sooner or later, you will."

"Maybe. Then again, maybe not." Yuugi got to his feet. "Thank you for your time."

---

To: Other me, 10:02
Hey guess what. I just spoke to Iwata

From: Other me, 10:04
Did he give you a hard time?

To: Other me, 10:04
He tried to lol

---

Yuugi was brought down from his resignation high sometime around noon, when his mother called. He winced when he glanced at the phone screen; he had hoped he would get to tell her the news face to face, maybe soften her up with a gift and a box of sweets. But of course. Anzu would have told her mom what happened, and Anzu's mom would have told Yuugi's. He should have expected that.

He heaved a great sigh before picking up. "Hey, mom."

"Yuugi! Is it true? Mrs Mazaki said that Anzu said—"

"That I quit my job and broke up with Anzu? Yeah, it's true." There. Over and done with.

First there was shocked silence. Then came a shrill rant. Mrs Mutou said all the things one would expect a mother to say. Have you thought of the consequences? What about your career? What will the people say? How are you going to make ends meet without a job? Do you realize you're not even thirty years old yet, and you'll already be divorced and unemployed? Yes, but what will the people say?

"Yes, Mom, I know," Yuugi said again and again. "I've thought it through, trust me."

"It doesn't look like it," she shot back. "How are you even going to afford the rent? This place of yours—"

"Well... Maybe we'll move out. We can find a smaller place with cheaper rent."

"We? Who's 'we'?

Yuugi winced. He had been thinking of Atem and himself but, of course, his mother didn't know about Atem. His mother knew nothing about Atem—not even the basics. And this definitely wasn't the time to get into it.

"Um—I meant my friends and me," he lied quickly. "They're gonna help me find a place. Seto knows plenty of people, so..."

"Yuugi. It's not too late. Call Anzu and apologize—"

"Mom, that's not gonna happen."

"Why did you decide to ruin your life all of a sudden? Everything you've worked so hard for—"

"Maybe this isn't ruining anything. Maybe this is just the next step."

"The next step would be having a child and starting a family! Not this!"

"What if that's not what I want, though?"

"Don't be ridiculous. You are thirty years old. You can't play games forever."

"Why not? Grandpa did."

He didn't expect his mother to start shouting. "Your grandfather was a gambler who cared only about himself!"

"That's not true. Grandpa cared about—"

"You don't know what it was like before you were born! Your grandfather would abandon us for weeks at a time to go gambling, and we didn't know if we'd ever see him again or if we'd wake up one day penniless and hunted by loan-sharks! He didn't care about the anguish he caused us; he only cared about the game, and the thrill, and his own damn self! And now you are doing the exact same thing! You're just as bad as him, if not worse!"

Of all the things Yuugi had heard today, nothing had hurt as much as this. "Mom, this—This isn't about games, or gambling, or any of that. It's just about me, trying—trying to create a life I'm happy with. It doesn't mean I don't care about anyone else."

"Go down the same road as your grandfather, then! I'm sure it will be great when you end up having a tiny game shop and a dozen loans! Maybe then you'll decide to marry, and your poor wife and children will have to carry the can!"

"Mom, that's not what's—"

"Don't expect a single penny from me or your father! I refuse to pay for another Mutou's recklessness!"

"I would never ask that of you."

"We'll see about that in a couple of months, when you'll be penniless and shunned and living in some dump—"

"Mom, why can't you trust me? I've always managed to pull through up until now—"

"Trust you with what, with destroying your life? I didn't object when you chose that awful career, because at least you achieved some degree of success in it—"

"Some degree—?"

"And I didn't object when you ran off on tournaments back when you were still at school, because at least it wasn't harming your school performance; I didn't even object when you won that tournament and gave away the prize money that could have gone a long way to pay of the game shop's business loan—"

"We've already talked about this. That money went into something way more important—"

"My greatest fear was that you'd take after my father-in-law, that you'd inherit his recklessness and his gambling impulse—"

"I'm not gambling—"

"—but at least you got sensible and made a well payed job of your gaming habit, and you got a fine girl—and now you're throwing it all away in a whim—"

"It's not a whim, mom! I've been thinking about it for way too long!"

"Well, I've got one thing to say to you, Yuugi Mutou. You'd better come to your senses, or you'll never see or hear from me or your father again!"

The line went dead.

Yuugi set his phone down. He sat still for a long time, pushing the heels of his palms against his eyes, breathing in and out.

Crap. He had known she wouldn't be happy about it, but he hadn't expected her to be this furious.

Just when he thought his day couldn't go any worse, there was a knock on his door and Yamato, one of the lead designers in his team walked in, bringing one of the reports Yuugi had asked for. Yamato was a nice guy, and Yuugi liked him a lot, so he knew he didn't speak from a point of malice when he said, "Mr Mutou, if I may ask... Why did you do it? You could have asked for anything you wanted."

"Maybe this is what I wanted," Yuugi replied, weary.

"With all due respect... Maybe you should reconsider?"

Yuugi gave him a stiff, professional smile. "Thank you for your concern, Yamato, but I've made my choice."

After Yamato came Kimura, and then Endo, and then Fujihara, and Imai, Otsuka, Koyama, and all of them were asking the same thing, all of them trying to change his mind as discreetly as they could.

When quitting time rolled by, he was glad to go. At least, Atem would be home. That was the only thing that kept him sane.

Sure enough, when Yuugi got into his apartment, Atem was sitting on one of the armchairs, reading a book—which already was an amazing improvement, compared to the previous days. He was no longer holed up in the guest room, or in that dingy bookshop. He smiled when Yuugi got in, looking up from his book. "Hey, aibou."

Nothing, nothing else could have soothed Yuugi as much as hearing that voice, that tone, saying that word. Muscles unclasped one by one, from his chest up to his face, allowing him to smile back. "Hi." He kicked his shoes off, dragged his feet to the couch and fell face-first onto the cushions with a loud plop and a creak of leather.

He heard Atem set his book down. "I would ask how your day was, but I think I can see the answer."

"My mom called," Yuugi said, voice muffled by the couch cushion.

"Oh." There was a brief silence. "Was she angry?"

"Furious. She might even disown me. She wants me to change my mind, and so does everybody else." Yuugi rolled onto his back and rubbed his eyes. "You know, I shouldn't have to defend my choices this much. I shouldn't have to defend my choices at all. They're my choices, but everybody tries to persuade me that I'm ruining my life and that they know what's best for me. It's exhausting." He dropped his hands and craned his head to look at Atem. "Please tell me you're not about to lecture me about how wrong my choices are, too."

Atem chuckled and shook his head. "We already had that fight, and you won."

"Good. I'm glad." Yuugi sighed and made himself more comfortable on the couch. "Why can't anybody respect my choices? Why does nobody think I'm capable of knowing what I want and deciding for myself?"

"I think they just want what's best for you, aibou. Speaking from personal experience... I think they're just worried. And that's their way of expressing that."

"None of them was worried when I was miserable, as long as I was married and successful," Yuugi emphasized the last word, his voice bitter. "And if I dared say I was not happy, they'd say, 'Oh, that's cause you need to have kids! That's when you'll truly feel fulfilled,' or 'Maybe it's time to buy your own house!', or a car, or get a promotion and what else. There are these very specific... boxes. If you tick all of them, you'll be happy. If you're still not happy, well, maybe that's cause there's a box you haven't ticked yet. And the boxes are the same for everyone. Job. Marriage. Kids. A house. There's no alternative; it's just this, a one-way street. And it's everywhere. Every movie, every story, every fairy-tale. Until it becomes unthinkable to want something else." He groaned, exasperated, and rubbed his eyes again.

After a short silence, Atem said, timidly, "I know. I thought that was what you needed to be happy, too."

Yuugi pushed himself up to a sitting position. "Tell you what. Let's make a deal," he said, so firmly that Atem flinched a bit, taken aback. "We'll make our own boxes, you and me. And we'll tick them, together. No matter what everyone else says. Okay?"

Atem blinked at him. He seemed unsure for a few seconds, but Yuugi knew, he knew, that if there was one person he could do this with, it was Atem. Them against the world, if they had to. They could do it, together.

Atem swallowed. Then he nodded. "Okay, aibou. Deal."

---

It was 8:30 a.m. and Bakura was sitting at the large table in the Golden Egg's kitchen, with Yuki and Rin next to him. The coffee was crap, as always, but it didn't matter. Its function was to wake him up enough to go out, look for a coffee shop and get a decent one later.

"Got any plans today, grumpy-pants?" Yuki said around her mouthful of buttered toast.

Bakura swallowed a sip of coffee and made a face. "Got a couple of errands to run downtown. And then I'll meet with Ryou."

As expected, Yuki grinned and nudged Rin with her elbow, sharing a laugh with her. "Need any dating advice?"

"For the thousandth time, it's not a date."

"Yeah, yeah, okay," she said, still grinning. "And how are your meetings going?"

Bakura shrugged and downed more coffee. "Good enough, I suppose. He hasn't tried to strangle me lately."

"Did you say you're sorry for going through his stuff?"

Bakura thought of the crumpled up note that was still in his jacket's pocket. "No."

Yuki and Rin exchanged another look. "Why not?"

Bakura shrugged. He decided to drink more of the awful coffee instead of replying. Hell, he'd down the whole pot in one gulp if it meant that he wouldn't have to admit out loud that he was too much of a chicken to apologize properly. And properly meant: not through a fucking note.

Behold the King of Thieves, he thought, grimacing to himself. He could strike a deal with a demon no problem, and try to burn the entire world, and still that seemed less intimidating than having to apologize to Ryou.

"I will apologize once I find the right words," he said in the end.

Yuki rolled her eyes. "How about I'm sorry?"

"That won't cut it."

"Why not?"

"It won't be enough."

"But it'll be a good start."

"Maybe," Bakura said with no conviction, to get her off his back.

"Stubborn asshole," she said, affectionately, and buttered another piece of toast.

When Bakura got out of the Golden Egg, the cold was so intense it made him curse out loud. In the time it took him to walk to the end of the street, his teeth started chattering, and he had stopped feeling his ears, with his nose and cheeks following suit.

He would have to go to the docks to pick up a package for Ishido, and then he'd have to go to the other side of town to collect some money. One thing was certain: he'd freeze his ass off before returning to the Golden Egg. This leather jacket wasn't enough. Maybe he should get a coat, after all. A nice, warm, thick coat.

He decided he'd make a small detour through the shopping district first. If he hurried up, he might avoid the frostbite.

---

It was a gray, heavy day, with a gray, compact sky and freezing winds that blew every now and then, sweeping dead leaves and coats and hair indiscriminately. The shopping district had a slow, steady stream of people strolling along, braving the cold and the wind with their faces tucked in scarves and their ears hidden under hats and hoods.

The first thing Bakura did was buy a proper cup of coffee—extra large, with whipped cream and caramel syrup. The second thing he did was walk to the store Ryou worked at, for no particular reason. Or rather, for a very particular reason. He stood outside the great glass front, sipping his coffee as he pretended to look at the display, while in reality his gaze travelled past the mannequins to the store's interior, searching. He couldn't spot Ryou anywhere. He moved a couple of paces, to look through the door. Still no Ryou. Maybe his shift hadn't started yet.

He waited another couple of minutes, just in case his ex-host emerged from a storage room or from behind a clothes' stand, but in the end he had to admit that Ryou probably wasn't there and that this was stupid, anyway. He would see him in the evening, after all.

With one last glance inside the store—just in case—Bakura finally moved on. He strolled along the street, gazing at the shop fronts for a while. The paper cup was blessedly hot against his fingers. Maybe he should buy gloves, too. And a hat.

He went into five different stores. After an hour, he had a nice, plush coat, a pair of fingerless gloves, and a thick grey beanie, which he all put on immediately. The coat was a rich black, reaching down to his knees, and it was infinitely warmer than his leather jacket. At the moment, said jacket was tucked away in one of his shopping bags. He would probably store it away for the warmer days. If he made it to those days, that was. Who knew. Maybe, come spring, the Spellbook shenanigans would be over and Bakura would be out of there. Or maybe not.

Maybe, before he left, he would give this coat to Ryou, to have for next winter. Ryou wouldn't say no to it if it was in Bakura's will, right?

Hell. A will. For a person who had died twice and was about to die a third time, he had remarkably little experience with writing a will. He had never had something to pass on to someone before. It wasn't like he had some sort of fortune right now, either, but he had a few possessions and some money.

So yeah, he would leave the coat to Ryou. It was a good quality, sturdy coat. It would last Ryou many winters—a lot more than the pathetic jacket he was wearing these days. And it looked cool, too. It would look nice on Ryou.

Maybe his leather jacket would also look cool on Ryou—no, scratch that, it would definitely look cool as fuck on Ryou—but he didn't know if it was his landlord's style. Maybe he'd leave the jacket to Malik, then. Not the money, though. He didn't even have to think about that one: his money would all go to Ryou. Malik didn't need them; he had a family to take care of him in case things got rough. Ryou had no one. His asshole of a father didn't count.

So yeah. The coat and his money would go to Ryou. His leather boots, too.

He kept thinking about what he'd write in his will as he walked to the docks. There, he met a tall, skinny guy in a red beanie, with quick, jittery hands and even quicker eyes, ever moving. The guy murmured a quick greeting to Bakura, glancing at him only once before his gaze started jumping around again. He passed Bakura a fat brown envelope—fat with Ishido's money, Bakura supposed—and a small, tightly wrapped package. Bakura hid them under his coat and left at once, unwilling to linger.

He took a cab to the south part of Domino, where another very similar exchange took place, and then he took a different cab back to the Golden Egg—or as near as the driver would take him. It was noon, and the sky was several shades darker than it had been a few hours ago. The wind made a plastic bag float across the alley that led to the Golden Egg.

"Hey," Bakura greeted Enki, who was sitting by the entrance.

"Yo," Enki said, barely lifting his eyes off his newspaper.

Across the hallway, through the deserted club, past the innocuous side-door, then through the trapdoor and down the steps to the basement, to Ishido's gambling hall. Bakura had done this short trip so many times already, he was confident he could do it with his eyes closed and not bump into any walls.

Ishido was not in the underground hall. Instead, one of his men was sitting at Ishido's private table, with a bodyguard by his side. Bakura knew what he had to do in this case: leave the stuff he'd collected at the table, state his name so the man could write it down, get out of there and await further instructions. Much better than having to see Ishido himself. Bakura was relieved—not because he was afraid of Ishido, but because he didn't want the bastard to ruin an otherwise fine day.

As he was leaving, his gaze lingered on the cage. Its door was left open, an innocent yawn in the quiet hall. See you on Saturday, Bakura thought. Speaking of, he'd better hurry and get his ass to the gym, to get some training done before heading off to Ryou's.

---

Ryou walked into the university premises, holding onto a paper cup of steaming black coffee as if he were holding the world's most precious treasure. He'd had a meagre four hours of sleep, because he'd lost track of time while poring over the Spellbook, and it had already been late when he'd remembered the assignment that was due the following day. He'd stayed up until the small hours of the morning, scribbling away haphazardly until he met the professor's required word count, certain that his paper wasn't making any sense but still preferring that over handing out no assignment at all. A bad grade was better than no grade. That was what he had kept telling himself, as he had downed cup of coffee after cup of coffee, and rubbed his eyes, and yawned.

He rubbed his eyes again now, avoiding to look at his reflection on the windows as he walked past. He knew he looked like crap. And he still had to go to work afterwards. He thought of the concealer and the hairbrush he had stuffed in his bag before leaving his apartment, and wondered whether they would be enough to make him presentable before his shift.

The amphitheatre was half full with students chattering sleepily when Ryou walked in. The professor wasn't there yet.

Ryou took a seat in one of the middle rows. As he took his notebook and pencil out, a girl a couple of seats away said, "Hey, Ryou."

It took him a couple of seconds to remember her name. "Hey... Makoto. Good morning."

"The exams schedule is out. Did you see?"

Ryou froze, one hand holding the flap of his bag, the other rummaging in. "Exams?"

"Uhh, yeah? The exams are starting next week. Did you forget?"

Five cups of coffee wouldn't have managed to wake him up as effectively as this. "Shit," he breathed.

He had thought the exams were at least three weeks away. But—of course, now that Ryou took the time to think about it, he could see that Makoto was right, and that he had just been woefully oblivious. The days had just slipped away from him. He'd been so busy with the Spellbook, and Bakura; and finding Bakura in his room reading his letters, and going down that particular memory lane, and—

"Shit," he said again.

Makoto made a sympathetic face. "Sorry for dropping this on you first thing in the morning."

"No, no, not at all. I should have remembered. Shit. I completely forgot. Uh..." He pushed his bangs off his face, and rubbed his eyes again. Don't panic, don't panic. "Thanks for reminding me."

"No problem. I've written down the schedule, in case you wanna see it."

"Yes, thank you."

She passed him her notebook, and Ryou copied the schedule with a shaking hand.

Shit. English literature on Tuesday morning, then grammar and syntax the day after. And then, linguistics on Friday. And that was just week one. Shit, shit, shit.

So, it was gonna be one of those weeks. He'd better stock up on coffee and cigarettes. He wished he had the luxury to take a few days off work, but he was running dangerously low on funds—which, okay, no surprises there.

Maybe he could take some days off, and ask Malik to lend him some money to make it through the exams period. He ruled that out the instant he thought it: he had done that once before, and he hadn't been able to pay Malik back for months. Malik had, of course, been totally chill about it, but Ryou had wanted to die of shame every time he met him.

No, he would manage without any loans or days off. He'd managed before, so he'd do it again. As for the Spellbook...

He'd manage. He'd manage.

---

"So. I'm off to the gym," Malik said, heaving his gym bag over one shoulder. He gave Mariku an uncertain look. "Wanna come with, or...?"

As always, Mariku shook his head. And, as always, Malik looked both relieved and alarmed.

"Alright. Call me if you need anything. And, uh—" Malik glanced around the apartment. Mariku read in his stance what Malik hesitated to say out loud. Don't set fire to anything or anyone while I'm gone. Or something of the sort.

"Okay," was all Mariku said.

"Okay," Malik echoed. He did not look reassured in the slightest. "Okay. Um... Later, then."

After Malik left, Mariku breathed more easily. When Malik was around, all the yami ever did was be careful. And it wasn't enough. He could see that Malik never really relaxed or dropped his guard. In response, Mariku didn't, either. It was exhausting.

It would be the same later, when Malik would have to leave for work. He'd ask the same thing, Do you want to come with? And Mariku would probably say no, depending on his mood.

He was sick of following Malik around, but he was sick of sitting inside the apartment all day, too. Back in Grandma Aiko's house, he had lots of things to do. He took Fluffy for walks. He moved the heavy furniture around whenever Grandma Aiko wanted to vacuum the floor. He put the pans and plates on the top shelf. He had a job, even though it was just carrying crates and stuff. And he had been free to go wherever, and all Grandma Aiko ever said was, 'Just be careful, dear heart, okay?' Not 'Don't attack anyone.' Not 'Don't destroy anything.' Not 'I'll lock the door.'

The apartment's door was not locked now, though. Malik had stopped doing that. He still locked his bedroom door at night, but he no longer locked Mariku inside when he left. And he had told Mariku where he kept the apartment's second key. That had to mean that Mariku was free to go, right? He was free to take the key and go, and then use it to come back.

He hadn't tried doing that yet. He didn't know why. Maybe because he had nowhere to go. Back in Grandma Aiko's house, he had a purpose. Find a way to get to Domino. Find Malik.

Finding Malik was not what he'd thought it'd be. It had explained nothing. It had solved nothing. So what was Mariku supposed to do now? He wished that Malik had a dog. Then, at least Mariku could take it for a walk.

Or. Maybe he could go for a walk even though he had no dog to walk. Plenty of people did that. He'd done it a couple of times, too, back in Tokyo. And Malik had never said he was not allowed to.

He knew where Malik kept the second key. He could go.

He got to his feet, deciding to do just that.

---

The sun was setting, and it was freezing cold outside. All Mariku had was the old jacket Grandma Aiko had given him. She'd said, 'This was my son's.' She'd said, 'Take good care of it, okay?'

It was a nice jacket, but it wasn't very warm. Mariku pulled the zipper all the way up, hiding his mouth and the tip of his nose in the high collar. He kept his hands deep in the jacket's pockets.

It was nice, even like this. The sky had a nice color. The windows in the buildings flashed orange.

Mariku walked down the street, towards the setting sun, because he liked looking at the colors. Behind him the sky was dark already. For fun, he tried not to step on the lines between the sidewalk tiles, until he grew bored of it and resumed walking normally.

He reached a park. There were plenty of trees, and further in, a fountain. Mariku went through the iron gate and followed one of the footpaths.

There were plenty of people around, most of them walking dogs of all colors and shapes and sizes. A couple of them were like Fluffy. If he had Fluffy with him now, he would give her scratches behind the head. He wondered if he could pet these dogs here. One of them sniffed his shoes and wagged its tail as it walked past. Cute. But he made no move to pet it.

He went to the fountain and watched the ducks glide around the water. A couple of kids threw chunks of bread at them, even though there was a sign that said Don't feed the ducks! nearby. Mariku wondered if he should tell them. He didn't.

When he grew bored of the ducks, he started walking again, following a different trail. When he grew bored of that, too, it was dark already, the pretty colors gone from the sky. The cold had started to become too much, so he decided to go back to Malik's apartment.

That was nice, he thought as he walked back the way he'd come. Maybe he could do that again tomorrow.

There was a loud group somewhere behind Mariku, in the sidewalk. Their voices and laughter grew louder as they approached. It was fine. Mariku no longer minded being around plenty of people.

As the group walked past, one of them bumped his shoulder into Mariku, nearly knocking him out of his tracks. The sudden contact rattled Mariku and he stumbled, but he barely noticed it over the screech in his brain. He snapped his head around, focusing on the guy who had hit him, his hand flying to his back pocket. His fingers closed around nothing but air, and there was a moment of pure disorientation, before he realized he didn't have the Rod with him. Of course he didn't have the Rod.

His heart was racing, and everything was hot, too hot. His hand kept trying to reach for the Rod that wasn't there. Why was he breathing so hard?

The group of boys who had passed him—teens, kids, just kids—glanced back at him, laughing, and kept on their way, unbothered. Mariku thought of ripping their tongues out, see if they would still laugh then; cut their arms at the base, of use the Rod to make them do it themselves; that would be fitting; that would be fair, wouldn't it?

But the kids were already gone, and he was still standing on the same spot on the sidewalk, panting as if he'd been running, his right hand clutching at nothing right where the Millennium Rod had once been. He could hear his heart thumping away in his ribcage.

He didn't have the Rod. No one had the Rod. It was gone. And those kinds had bumped into him. Just a bump.

What did Grandma Aiko use to say? Count ten deep breaths for me. Now tell me. Where are you?

"I'm on a sidewalk," Mariku murmured, barely moving his lips. He counted ten deep breaths.

Good, the Grandma Aiko in his head said. And what happened?

"Some kids bumped into me."

Are you hurt?

"No."

Are you safe?

"...Yes."

Count ten more deep breaths for me.

Mariku breathed. He rolled his shoulders and neck, the way Grandma had showed him. She knew what she would say next. Where do you feel tense?

"My head." His head was about to explode.

Clench and unclench your jaw twenty times. Tightly.

It took a while, but Mariku did that.

Now, where else?

"My hands." He wanted to throttle something. Or tear it apart.

Clench and unclench your fists twenty times.

By the time Mariku was done clenching his fists, his heart was quiet. He wasn't breathing fast anymore, and the screech in his head was gone. The kids were gone, too.

Good job, dear heart, the Grandma Aiko in his head said.

---

Mariku returned to Malik's apartment and got in using the key—his key. And then he paused. Malik was already there, pacing back and forth in the living room, but his head snapped up the moment the door opened.

"Where the hell have you been?" Malik yelled, rushing towards him.

Mariku instinctively backstepped, drawing away from Malik, whose face did not promise anything good. Mariku knew that expression well: he had seen it on his face more times than he could count, and he had even seen it on Malik in the past, when they had stood across from each other in a dueling arena. Anger.

Mariku's pulse spiked for the second time that day. Malik was close; too close. His eyes were narrow, and his jaw was square, muscles taut, as if he was clenching his teeth.

Count to ten for me.

One. Two. Three—

"I said. Where the hell have you been?" Malik repeated.

Mariku could easily grab him. Twist his neck. Or grab the keys and jab them in his jugular. Or under the jaw, pointing upwards. Or maybe even his eye—the eye, the eye, and suddenly Mariku remembered what it was like to be nothing but an eye, awaiting oblivion, nothing to do but look and wait; a single eye watching Malik place his palm on his deck and sealing his fate; wiped from existence, hurtling through darkness, less than an eye now, less than a person—

—Four. Five. Six—

"Out," Mariku croaked. "Walking." His heart was hammering in his chest.

Seven. Eight.

Just breathe in.

"Walking," Malik repeated, clearly not believing him. "Where?"

"The park. I saw the ducks." Nine. Ten.

It's not working.

Count again.

One—

"What else did you do?"

Mariku shook his head. Nothing. He had done nothing. He hadn't attacked those kids, even though he had wanted to, and he wasn't attacking Malik now, even though he wanted to. He thought of the dogs he had seen in the park, and then he thought of Fluffy—Fluffy, who always licked his hands and nose. Thinking of Fluffy was better than counting.

"Did you hurt anyone?" There was a hard glint in Malik's eyes, and sharp angles all over his face.

"No. I counted numbers."

"...What?"

"Grandma taught me to count numbers every time I want to hurt someone." Like now.

—Five. Six—

Something changed in Malik's face, just a bit. He took a step back. Mariku breathed more easily.

Malik was looking at him without speaking, but Mariku didn't care. It gave him some time to breathe, and count his breaths, and think of Fluffy.

"So you went for a walk," Malik said, calmer.

Mariku nodded.

"You could've left a fucking note."

Mariku shrugged. "You never said so."

"I never—?" Malik started in a shrill voice, only to pause and run a hand through his hair. "It's common fucking sense! I almost went crazy over here!"

"Why?"

"Why? You're asking why? I half-expected the police to show up with handcuffs and tasers—"

"Tasers? What are tasers?"

Malik huffed and run both hands through his hair. His fingers stayed there, grabbing several tufts, and Malik stayed like this, looking at nothing for a long while.

Mariku's heart was quieter now. He found he didn't need to count his breaths anymore, so he decided to speak. "You said I could leave the house. You gave me a key."

"Yeah, but—" Malik closed his eyes and let out a long huff of air. Maybe he was counting his breaths, too. It was a useful trick. "You know what? Fuck this. I should get you a phone." He let his hands drop and looked at the yami with finality. "Yeah. I'd much rather know I can reach you whenever, instead of staying in the dark like this—"

"It was just a walk."

"I don't care. You could have been taking part in a bloodbath, for all I knew—"

"I didn't. I counted numbers."

Malik rubbed his face with his hands. "Great. That's great. That's lovely. I'm getting you a phone."

---

At half past seven, Bakura was all showered, dressed and ready to go. His muscles ached sweetly from the day's workout as he walked to Ryou's neighborhood. He considered getting another cup of coffee, maybe buy one for Ryou, too. He made a small detour to pass from his favorite coffeeshop and ordered two coffees to go, one of them black and bitter, the way Ryou liked it.

In Ryou's apartment building, on the fifth floor, Ryou's door was cracked open for him; classical music was drifting out into the hallway. Bakura took a second to fix the way his hair stuck out of his new beanie, and walked in.

The apartment was significantly messier than it had been the previous day, with books and notes strewn all around the living room. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke. In the midst of the haze, Ryou was picking up books and empty cups with a harried, pinched look on his face.

"Hey," Bakura said, kicking the door shut behind him.

Ryou nodded in his general direction without speaking. He made a pile of the books, slamming each one on top of the other. His lips were pressed together in a thin line. He looked anxious, more than usual.

"I, um—I brought you some coffee," Bakura said, extending the cup towards Ryou.

Ryou's gaze found the cup, then drifted momentarily to Bakura's face. After a second's hesitation, he took the cup from Bakura's hand. "You didn't have to," he murmured. He took off the plastic cover to look at the cup's contents. Thick steam escaped; underneath, the coffee was a rich, liquid black.

"Well, I was getting a cup for myself, so..." Bakura said. He hoped he didn't look like an idiot. He kinda felt like one. He shouldn't be this nervous.

Ryou set the cup on the coffee table, by the pile of books, and then stood looking at them, as if trying to decide something. He licked his lips once, then bit down on his lower lip.

"Is everything alright?" Bakura asked.

Ryou picked up the pile of books, huffing with something between irritation and weariness. "Yup. Just lovely. Be right back." He took the books to his bedroom. When he reappeared with the Spellbook pages tucked under his armpit, Bakura had already made himself comfortable on the couch. He had fixed his hair, too, making sure the hat hadn't made them too flat on his head.

Ryou sat cross legged on the carpet, grabbed his coffee cup and took a sip. "Okay. Let's get started."

Bakura could see that there was something bothering Ryou; something new, that hadn't been there yesterday. "What's wrong?" he ventured to ask.

He knew he'd crossed a line when Ryou's eyes narrowed in a glower. "None of your business."

Damn. He shouldn't have pried. Stupid. They'd been doing so well up until now.

Bakura reached for the Spellbook pages, and Ryou picked up his notes, and for a couple of minutes none of them spoke. Bakura stared at the swirls and blobs of ink on the pages. They seemed as incomprehensible as they had been on day one.

He stole a glance upwards. Ryou had propped his chin on his hand and was gazing at his notes with an equally stumped look.

"Should we maybe... relax a bit first?" Bakura suggested. "You know, drink some coffee and chill for a while?"

Ryou's head snapped up. "I don't have time to chill."

"I'm just saying. We won't make any progress if our heart's not into it."

"Just focus."

Bakura huffed. He knew a lost battle when he saw one. He returned to his pages.

It was odd. It was as if the was some kind of wall between him and the Spellbook. The symbols had no meaning, no rhythm. And Ryou wouldn't stop moving. Out of the corner of his eye, Bakura could see him squirm, pick up his coffee cup, pick at his lips, huff, spin his pencil around and around.

It took Ryou half an hour to slam his notepad down and say, "Nope. I got nothing. It's not clicking today. I—"

Bakura set his own notes down and looked at Ryou. "Take a break. Chill for a bit. I mean it."

Ryou spat out a laugh. "I told you, I don't have the—"

"You're wasting more time by doing this. I can see there is something else going on in your head. If you don't allow yourself to—"

"Tell me then, mister mind-reader, what is going on in my head?"

Bakura almost winced. This was getting worse by the second. Ryou was clearly incensed today, for whatever reason. He should tread carefully.

"Alright, listen," Bakura said slowly. "Take a ten minute break, okay? Ten minutes is not much. Have a cigarette, take a short walk or something. And then we'll keep going."

Ryou scowled at him, looking ready to argue—or to tell him to fuck off. Same thing, really. In the end, his face settled in a look too stubborn for Bakura's liking. He got to his feet, went to his bedroom and returned with a heavy book. He sat back down, opened the book determinedly, and grabbed a pencil.

"What are you doing?" Bakura asked. This didn't look like taking a break.

"You said I got ten minutes, right? Well then, shut up, cause I've got shit to do."

Bakura stared as Ryou underlined and circled sentences in the book, all purposeful and focused. University work, no doubt. Maybe that was what had gotten Ryou so agitated.

Bakura sank back onto the couch and picked up the Spellbook pages. The symbols still looked like incomprehensible blots, but at least Ryou wasn't as restless now. After a while, when he heard Ryou shift and set his book down, Bakura said, without looking up, "Take another ten minutes."

"What?"

"Take another ten minutes," Bakura repeated. "The Spellbook's not going anywhere. I'll let you know if I need your help."

In ten minutes, when Ryou made to put his book away again, Bakura said, nonchalantly, "I think we can manage another ten minutes."

Ryou opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. It was fine by Bakura. He would do this all night, if he had to.

Ryou returned to his book, and Bakura kept poring over the Spellbook pages. It took nearly thirty minutes for Ryou to lift his head and push his book away again.

"Take another ten minutes," Bakura said.

"This is ridiculous."

"Just ten minutes more."

"I can see what you're playing at."

Bakura grinned. "Then play along."

Ryou returned to his book. Bakura returned to the Spellbook, although his focus was mostly on Ryou, checking to see if he was studying or being stubborn again, and thinking what else he could do to help that wouldn't hurt Ryou's pride. Maybe he could pretend he was hungry, order plenty of food and then leave most of it for Ryou, insisting that he was full? Ryou would see right through it, but maybe it was worth a shot. Ryou was looking thinner with each day that passed—or maybe Bakura was getting better at observing him. Maybe Bakura could hide some money in Ryou's jacket pocket; just a couple of misplaced bills. Not too many, or Ryou was bound to suspect him.

The energy in the room settled, slowly, like dust after a breeze. The music kept playing, mingling with the sound of pages turning, lighters clicking, and the sizzling of cigarettes. Ryou stopped trying to protest, thankfully, and Bakura relaxed on the couch, his sore muscles melting in the cushions.

Staring at the Spellbook was ineffective, so he closed his eyes and listened to the music for a bit. He had no idea what they were listening to, but it was nice. Calming.

"Hey. Hey." Someone was shaking him. Bakura opened his eyes. Ryou was standing over him, scowling in his customary way. "Did you fall asleep?"

Bakura checked his phone. It was a quarter to ten. Damn, he really had fallen asleep. Deeply and soundly, by the looks of it. He sat up with a groan and rubbed his eyes. "Oops," he said.

Ryou rolled his eyes. He turned around and started picking up books and notepads. "Let's call it a night, then. Since neither you nor me are working on the Spellbook."

"Did you get any studying done?"

Ryou's head snapped around, as if ready to catch Bakura mocking him, or sneering at him. When he saw that Bakura's question was genuine, he replied. "Some. But not enough."

Bakura got to his feet and stretched. "Maybe you should call it night, too. Get some rest."

"I told you, I don't have time to—"

"It was just a suggestion, landlord. Don't get all riled up."

Ryou huffed. "Whatever."

"Should we continue tomorrow?" Bakura asked. "Or should we take a break, so that you can study?"

Ryou's mouth twisted stubbornly. "I'll manage. And anyway, you don't have to pretend to care about my studies."

That was a bit unfair, but Bakura decided there was no point in telling him he wasn't pretending. Anybody with two eyes and half a brain could see that Ryou's attempt to multitask was taking its toll on him, but Ryou would argue even harder if Bakura said that out loud, so he said nothing. Maybe leaving his landlord in peace for tonight was the right thing to do. And, if Ryou had half a brain, he would realize he'd need to sleep and rest sometime soon, too.

"Tomorrow, then," Bakura said.

---

Ryou yawned so widely his jaw hurt. The clock on the stereo read 04:58. The CD he had put on had finished playing a long time ago, but Ryou didn't have to courage to get up and put on a new one. He was reading the same paragraph over and over again, but no meaning was sinking in. He had lost count of how many cups of coffee he had emptied, but even caffeine couldn't keep the bleariness from his eyes. The most concerning of all, though, was that he was out of cigarettes.

Just this chapter. Then I'll get some sleep, he told himself. Gods, he'd kill for a cigarette.

The words on the page were making no sense. He might as well have been reading the Spellbook. Not that it mattered. He was going to fail, anyway. Maybe he should just give up. Skip those exams entirely; if he didn't show up, he would save himself the humiliation. Instead, he could just... sleep. And go to work. Back to that dead-end job, folding clothes for a semester longer, until next exams' season rolled by, and there would be a repeat of the exact same thing, as had happened before. Yeah. Great plan.

Shut up and study then, Ryou Bakura, he thought.

He was so tired. Bone-deep. He couldn't shake off the feeling of futility as time moved on.

The sky outside started turning lighter and the first birds started chirping. Ryou leaned his head against his book, his cheek resting on the rough paper, and closed his eyes, just for a second.

When he opened his eyes again, his alarm clock was screaming and the sky outside the window was a light, melancholic blue. He raised his head with difficulty, feeling like it weighed a ton, and looked around. 7:00 am. He had fallen asleep.

With a groan, he turned off the alarm and rubbed at the crick in his neck. His body nearly refused to cooperate; even moving his arm was a gargantuan task. The floor was weighing him down, and the carpet looked so welcoming. If only he could just lie down, right there, among his books, and sleep some more...

He had to get ready for work. Shit. He rubbed his eyes. Part of him wondered what would happen if he did lie there, and didn't move again. If he just refused to open his eyes. And damn his job, and his degree, and the Spellbook, and the rent that was due. Damn it all.

Something dark and almost vindictive rose up his throat at the thought. Would it make any difference? Maybe it would be for the better. He wouldn't have to deal with this shit anymore. Damn enticing, really.

He got to his feet and went to the kitchen to make some coffee. He toasted some stale bread and munched on it half-heartedly, feeling like he was chewing paper. His tongue was dry and coarse like desert sand.

He got to work, barely realizing how he managed to. He would swear he had fallen asleep on his feet as he walked, because suddenly he blinked and found he was outside his workplace. The lights inside the store were on, and his coworkers were moving boxes and stacks of clothes around behind the half-drawn shutter.

Ryou rubbed his eyes. Cool. He was getting into Millennium-Ring-blackouts territory. Just lovely.

His coworkers stared at him as he walked in, but Ryou ignored them and ran upstairs to the staff room, wishing more than anything to avoid his boss. It might be good to avoid mirrors, too. He knew he looked like crap. There was no helping it.

Somehow, he managed to avoid Mrs Nishimura all throughout the first half of his shift, which was a blessing he would gladly take. He went to the staff room for lunch, but he didn't eat much. He'd brought a cheese and ham sandwich with him, but he could hardly get his throat to swallow it. He gave up at the third bite.

Four more hours. He could do it. And then a Spellbook session, and then studying—

His ears were ringing. He was folding a t-shirt. When had he gotten there? He was folding it all wrong. He felt like throwing up the two bites of sandwich he had eaten.

The shirt's fabric was soft between his fingers, but it was too far away. Black spots were popping up in front of his eyes. He couldn't blink them away. He couldn't find the pile of shirts he had been folding.

Blackness closed in.

"Bakura! Hey, Bakura! Can you hear me?"

Someone was shaking him. There were voices all around him, and a cold and hard surface under his back. God, his stomach. He wanted to throw up.

He blinked until the darkness dissolved, even though that made him more nauseous. Somebody shouted something. There was so much noise. Don't throw up, he thought.

He was on the floor. Too many faces were around him; Kiri, his coworker, was kneeling above him.

"Bakura! Are you alright?"

Shirts were strewn around him. He tried to push himself off the floor, and pain shot up his arm. The side of his head was throbbing.

And then, to his horror, Mrs Nishimura emerged out of the small gathered crowd.

---

"You need to go home."

"I am fine, Mrs Nishimura. I can keep working."

"It's not up for debate, Bakura. You fainted. You are not fine."

"It was just a momentary... uh, dysfunction. I feel great."

"Bakura, you are obviously unwell. I can't have you out there in this state."

"Please, I—I can't afford to go now. It's just two more hours. I can do it. I'll drink some water and—"

"I said it's not up for debate, Bakura. Go home. Now."

"Mrs Nishimura, please—"

"Just make sure that when you come back tomorrow, you look better than this. Or I'll send you right back home. I'm warning you."

---

Bakura had high hopes for this afternoon. He was prepared for Ryou to be stubborn, but he was confident he could handle it. It didn't even matter if they didn't make any Spellbook progress, as long as he got Ryou to chill for a moment.

He walked to Ryou's workplace to pick him up. He managed to be there ten minutes before Ryou's quitting time, so he waited outside. And waited. And waited.

After twenty minutes, he started getting antsy. He walked up to the store's entrance and looked inside, not bothering to appear discreet. He couldn't spot Ryou anywhere.

After five more minutes of this, the guard approached him. "Can I help you, sir?"

Hell. It wouldn't harm to ask, would it? "I'm waiting for someone. Ryou Bakura. He works here."

The guard told him to wait and called one of the employees. When Bakura asked her about Ryou, she said, "Oh, Ryou, right. He already left." Bakura didn't know if it was just him, but he thought there was something weird about her smile. Some sort of unease. Maybe it was just the stress of being on the clock.

Ryou seldom, if ever, left work earlier, but anyway. Maybe his boss had taken a pity on him and let him go and rest a bit. Maybe that meant that Ryou would be less tired than usual—in a better mood, too, hopefully.

Bakura set out for Ryou's place. He made a quick stop to get coffee for Ryou and him, and got an assortment of donuts, too, because they looked too damn delicious to pass.

When he got to Ryou's, the door was left cracked open for him, as usual, with classical music coming from inside the apartment.

Bakura pushed the door open. "Hey." A draft of cold air hit him, instantly making him tense up and pause.

The apartment was a terrible mess; more terrible than usual. Makeshift ashtrays everywhere, all full; books; crumpled papers; empty mugs. The window was open, turning the apartment into a literal fridge. Ryou was standing by it, leaning with his hip against the windowsill and smoking languidly. He turned to give Bakura and acknowledging look, and Bakura felt his stomach sink.

He hadn't seen Ryou look this bad before. He'd always looked exhausted, and pale, and way too thin, but still, it hadn't been... this. Right now, he didn't look to be on the verge of collapsing—he looked like he should have already collapsed, like he should be lying on the floor for Bakura to find. It should have been impossible to remain standing when looking like this.

"Damn, it's cold in here," Bakura said, kicking the door shut behind him.

Ryou did not reply; he went on smoking. Bakura didn't know if it was the lack of sleep, or the way the light hit his face, but Ryou's cheekbones were protruding sharply, stark over the hollows of his cheeks. In fact, Bakura was certain he could see every bone of Ryou's skull, and every joint in his thin, spindly fingers. Had they always been this prominent?

Ryou seemed unconcerned, standing with one leg folded over the other, blowing smoke out the window as if it weren't freezing outside—or as if he didn't look like he would collapse with the slightest whiff of a breeze. He finished his cigarette, put out the stump on a coffee cup that rested on the windowsill, and finally closed the window. "What's that?" he asked, nodding towards the stuff in Bakura's hands.

Bakura almost did a double take. This had sounded like someone had recorded his own voice and played it back at him: his voice after a fight in the ring, when exhaustion and dizziness started to settle in and he could feel his head ringing from the blows.

"I, um, I brought coffee and donuts," Bakura said. Then, before he could stop himself, "Did you not sleep at all?"

Ryou scoffed. "Course I did." Bakura couldn't tell if that was sarcasm or not.

"What, for half an hour?" he said.

He got no reply. Ryou approached, pointedly looking at the cups, and Bakura gave him his coffee—although, in hindsight, this wasn't such a good idea. He should have brought something more hearty. Ramen, maybe. A whole pot of it. From up close, Bakura could see how hollow and dark his eyes were, how ghastly the shade of his skin. A corpse would have looked healthier than this. Bakura would know; he'd seen his fair share of corpses.

"Are you okay?" he said before he could stop himself.

Ryou gave him a sharp glare. "I'm great. Come on." He took his cup to the living room, where he sat cross-legged in his usual spot, before the cluttered coffee table. "Let's begin."

Bakura didn't move. He could tell something was terribly off. He looked around the apartment again. Nowhere among this mess was a single plate, or bowl, or a food wrapper. The sink seemed to have nothing but cups in it.

Fuck, Bakura thought. Thank Thoth, at least he had the good sense to bring something edible.

Ryou was already laying Spellbook pages out onto the table. Bakura hung his coat on the rack, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the cold.

"I brought donuts, too," he said, shaking the bag as he took his seat on the couch.

"You can have those," Ryou said, without looking up.

Bakura pretended not to hear him. He opened the bag and peered inside. "There's chocolate, jam, and cream—you like cream, right?"

"I told you, you can have them. Just coffee's fine for me."

Ryou's sweater looked massive on him, pooling and bunching everywhere. The wrist that peeked out of his sleeve was pure skin and bone. "Have you eaten anything?" Bakura asked, not caring if the question would make Ryou angry because, fuck, this was concerning.

Ryou rolled his eyes. "What's this, an inspection?"

That wasn't an answer; that was the exact opposite of an answer. And Ryou was avoiding his gaze.

Maybe the reason Ryou left work early today was the obvious one. Maybe he was looking so fucking terrible that his boss kicked him out of the store. Honestly, Bakura wouldn't be surprised if that was the case. He decided to fish for the answer. Feigning nonchalance, he asked, "How come you got off work early?"

Ryou stiffened at once, his cup pausing halfway to his mouth. His gaze, alarmed, skittered to Bakura and away.

His reaction was kinda extreme for such a simple question. The look on Ryou's face was guilt.

Bakura sat straighter, suddenly alert. Ryou hadn't left work early 'just cause'. He could tell.

"What happened?" Bakura asked, dead serious.

Ryou gave him a sharp glare, but it wasn't enough to hide his nervousness. "Who told you that something happened?"

"I can tell. You're hiding something."

Ryou scowled. He reached his packet of cigarettes and tapped out one. "Maybe that's because it is none of your business," he muttered before catching the tip of the cigarette between his lips.

"What happened?" Bakura repeated.

Ryou ignored him. He lit his cigarette and took a deep drag. "Let's begin," he said, pointedly looking at the pages spread before him.

Maybe Bakura shouldn't push; maybe he should stay on Ryou's good-ish side, and play it chill until Ryou relaxed enough to maybe share the truth willingly. Except that this seemed impossible right now. The alarm bells inside his head had turned into fucking war horns.

"Ryou," he said, sharp, like a stomp.

"What?"

Bakura stared at him, observing Ryou's annoyance and poorly hidden unease. "They sent you home, didn't they?" He was shooting in the dark right now, but he didn't feel he was far off the mark. And, judging by the look on Ryou's face, he had probably hit bullseye. "Why?"

Ryou tried to scowl. "I never said they sent me—"

"Cut the crap. What happened? Why did they send you home?"

Ryou huffed loudly through his nose. He took his time taking a drag of his cigarette, flicking the ashes, and looking at anything but Bakura. "It's nothing."

"So something happened."

Ryou rolled his eyes again, trying his best to look exasperated. It took him almost a full minute and smoking through all of his cigarette to reply, but Bakura waited until, in the end, Ryou huffed and said, "I may have kind of fainted while on the clock."

"You what?"

"It's nothing. I just got a bit dizzy."

"You fucking fainted. That's not 'a bit dizzy'."

"So what?"

Bakura examined him. "When was the last time you ate something?"

"Here we go again."

"Answer the fucking question."

Ryou did not speak. He took the last drag of his cigarette, looking out towards the dark window, as if hoping that by ignoring Bakura he'd drop the subject.

"Alright," Bakura said with finality. "Fine. Forget the donuts. How about noodles? Or pizza? I know a great place with delivery—"

"This isn't a dinner date." Ryou glowered at him, his eyes looking like coals in their sunken pits. "Come on. Let's get started."

"I'm not doing anything unless you eat something first."

"What's this, a threat?"

"Call it what you will." Bakura felt the urgent need to call Malik. Maybe he was being stupid—he didn't know. He didn't know. "When was the last time you ate? Or slept?"

"It's okay, Mom, you don't need to worry," Ryou sneered. The music had stopped, so Ryou got to his feet to change the CD. Bakura got up, too, following him to the bookcase.

"I mean it, Ryou. You look terrible."

Ryou snorted as he went through the numerous CD cases on the shelf above the stereo. "Hey, thanks."

"I'm not joking. Bags under your eyes. You look like you haven't slept in five years, your skin is almost grey, and god knows when was the last time you had a proper meal. I have no idea how you are still standing, since you are literally skin and bones."

Ryou made a show of rolling his eyes, but he avoided looking directly at him. "I don't look that bad."

"You look like a skeleton."

Ryou waved a dismissive hand. "I've looked way worse in the past."

Bakura pinned him with a steady look. His voice came out dark, almost angry. "That's nothing to be proud of."

Ryou made an exasperated face. "Well, I'm perfectly fine, so feel free to get off my back." He finally picked a CD and put it in the CD player. Then, probably to get away from Bakura, he stalked to the kitchen. Bakura followed him, relentless, and caught up to him just as Ryou reached for a bottle of liquor on the top shelf.

"What the hell are you doing?" Bakura said.

"What?" Ryou said innocently. He held up the bottle, a thin smile stretching his cracked lips. "There's calories in this. So, it counts as eating, right?"

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Ryou started pouring alcohol in a glass. "You want some?"

Bakura grabbed his wrist, stopping him. His fingers wrapped all around the bone and there was still room to spare, making Bakura feel like he was holding the fragile bone of a bird. Still, he held firmly, looking straight at Ryou. "It's not funny."

Something challenging flitted across Ryou's eyes, making them glint. "Oh, it is funny. It is hilarious." He shook his arm free.

Bakura let him go, mostly out of fear that he would harm Ryou if he held on too tightly, but he blocked his way out of the kitchen. "So, you think this is joke? Running yourself to the ground? You can't live off of cigarettes and alcohol, Ryou."

"Why do you even care?" Ryou shot back. "This is my body, in case you haven't noticed. You no longer have a say in how I treat it."

"Oh, so you're proving a point. Is that it?"

"That's not what I said."

"That's what it sounded like."

"Who are you to lecture me, anyway? Don't act like you're not fucking up this body as much as I am, if not worse." Ryou gestured towards Bakura's body.

"It's not the same."

Ryou spat out a broken laugh. "Ooooh, right. It's different."

Bakura tried hard to speak calmly. "It is different. I'm gonna die soon. I plan to. That's why we're doing all this crap, isn't it? So that I can fuck off back to the afterlife? So it doesn't matter what I do to this body."

Ryou took a sip from his drink. He stared out at nothing, his glass hovering close to his mouth. "Well... Then maybe it doesn't matter what I do to my body, either."

Coldness washed over Bakura; a thin, crawling terror. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Ryou shrugged. "Maybe I also wanna fuck off to the afterlife, as you put it." He'd spoken quietly, but there was a hard-set darkness in his eyes. It scared Bakura more than the words themselves.

"You don't mean that."

Ryou arched an eyebrow at him; the edges of his mouth curved upwards, distorting his face into a sneer. "I don't? Come on. I know you know better than that. You read my letters, after all. You know I meant it the last time."

And fuck, it was true: Bakura did know, because those damned letters had burned themselves into his brain, and that was why he couldn't help the terror he felt right now. "That was years ago. You said it yourself. You said you're not that Ryou anymore."

Ryou pondered it, swirling his drink inside his glass. "Hm... Maybe I didn't change as much as I thought."

"You did," Bakura snapped. "I can see it myself. I can see you are no longer the Ryou of the past. So cut the crap. You're better than this."

"Okay. You can stop pretending to care now."

"What about your mother? Would she care if she could see you?"

Ryou flinched a bit, imperceptibly, but his face remained hard. "Don't you dare talk about my—"

"What would she say if she saw the way you're treating yourself? What would your sister say? Do you think that's what they'd want for you?"

Ryou stood still, glaring at Bakura. After working his jaw for a while, he said, voice low, "No, I suppose not. But it doesn't matter, does it? They're not here."

Bakura actually scoffed at that. "And you think they can't see you? I expected more of you. You are one of the few people that know for a fact that the afterlife exists."

"If it exists, I'd much rather be there. With them."

"Shut. Up. You don't mean this." Bakura didn't even know why this made him so angry.

Ryou let out a huff that sounded like a chuckle. "What does it matter, anyway? It's not like it makes any difference."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Ryou emptied his glass with one gulp, and Bakura had the impulse to slap the glass away, shatter it against a wall before Ryou had the chance to fill it again. "It means," he said, slurring only slightly, "that it doesn't matter. No matter what I do, it doesn't matter. Everything always fails. And I'm tired."

"Yeah. You are tired. You need some sleep, that's what you need. Maybe then you'll start talking some sense."

This time Ryou did chuckle, all breath and bitterness. "I don't get why it's such a big deal. Why is it okay for you to give up, but not me?"

"We are. Not. The same," Bakura said through gritted teeth.

"Right. That's your answer to everything, isn't it?" Ryou glowered at Bakura, his wan, wasted body poised as if ready to fight. "You're right. We're not the same. You are the one who comes to fuck everything up and then gets to leave, and I'm the one who's left to deal with the mess. Again. And I don't even have the right to say I'm fucking tired. Tired. Exhausted. Sick of it." He took a step towards Bakura, face twisted, full of dark pits and hollows. His voice was a hiss. "Everything always goes from bad to worse, no matter what I do, and I'm sick of pretending there's still something to salvage. So, excuse me if I think death's all there's left for me. Excuse me for not wanting to try anymore, because it makes no fucking difference. Excuse me for being exhausted, fucking exhausted of trying to be strong, and excuse me for wanting to die. Hell, I don't know why you think you have the right to want to die, but I don't? Why is it a noble pursuit for you, but not for me?"

"Because we are not the same!" Bakura roared. "We're not, and you'd better open your eyes and see it! This is your world, your time, your fucking life! I am just a parasite, looking for a way out! I am someone whose number was up thousands of years ago, and who should have never existed in this era! There's no point in taking care of this body because I'm not meant to! I am out of time, in every sense of the fucking word! But you? What excuse do you have? What is your deal? What is your reason to want to throw this all away? You have all the choice in the world and all the possibilities laid out before you, and you choose this one? The most wasteful one? Under, what? Under the pretense that we are the same? We are not; understand that! My number is up; yours isn't!"

Bakura stopped talking abruptly, realizing that he had shouted loud enough to make his throat sore. His pulse was raging and his breath was coming out fast; he wanted to start shouting again because Ryou was being an idiot, and he had to see that he had everything, right there, everything he would ever need was already in him but he refused to let himself see it because—because—

"Is this your own perverse way of one-upping me?" he snarled, unable to hold back. "Are you trying to finish the job I started and destroy the rest of your life by yourself, simply so you can say that you had the last word?"

Ryou's face spasmed. Something stricken darted across it.

"Or do you think that by punishing yourself, you are punishing me, too? Cause I have news for you, landlord: we are not one anymore! This time you can't punish me by stabbing your hand through a tower; this time there is only you in there, and the only one you're harming is you. Or did you think that it still counts? That some sort of balance in the fucking universe will be restored if you punish yourself enough?"

Ryou tried to scowl, but he failed. His brow quivered over his eyes. "I—I don't—" he stammered, barely a murmur.

"You keep acting like I am the one who destroyed your life, but the truth is, you no longer need me to do that for you!"

Bakura didn't stay to see the shock unfold on Ryou's face, or to wait for a reply. He whirled around, grabbed his coat, put on his boots without bothering to do the laces, and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

---

Bakura hadn't been this angry in a very long time.

He was marching through the streets, his breath hissing out of him as he ground his teeth. The laces of his boots clattered against the sidewalk tiles, but he didn't pause to tie them. He feared that if he stopped moving, he might scream.

His hands were shaking and he clenched and unclenched his fists. He had the dire need to punch something. Or go back and grab Ryou by the shoulders and shake some sense into his stubborn head. He almost turned around to do just that, but then he kept walking, crossing street after street.

He hoped Ryou hadn't gone for the fucking bottle after Bakura left.

Shit.

Bakura stopped in his tracks. He could still see Ryou's face in front of him, wide eyes and everything. The look on his face hadn't been just shock; it had been hurt. Bakura had done it again, whether he had meant to or not.

He rubbed a hand over his face. "Shit." What if his words had tipped Ryou over the edge? Broken scenarios flashed through his head, one worse than the other.

He turned around and took a couple of steps back towards Ryou's place, then changed his mind again. He couldn't trust that he wouldn't make things worse if he went back. He would probably start yelling again.

"Shit, shit, shit." He had to check on him somehow.

He took his phone out of his pocket to call Malik. He paused for a second, wondering if it would be better to straight up call Ryou instead. And what are you gonna say, huh? his brain shot at him.

He called Malik.

"Hello?"

"Hey," Bakura said gruffly. "Do me a favor and call Ryou to see if he's okay."

"What? Why? What happened?"

"Just do it." Bakura hesitated for a second. "Please."

"O...kay? Now I'm a little worried."

"Just—be discreet. Don't tell him I put you to it."

"Alright, fine."

Bakura hovered around the neighborhood for a while, pacing back and forth with his phone clenched in his hand. He was ready to run back to Ryou's, if need be. Hell, he almost did, once or twice, until the calmer part of his mind persuaded him to wait for Malik to call back.

When his phone rang, he almost dropped it in his hurry to pick up.

"I called him," Malik said. "He sounded pretty riled up, said he wasn't in the mood to talk. What happened with you two?"

"Did he say anything else?" Bakura asked, ignoring the question.

"Not much. Said he was tired, and was in the middle of eating dinner, so he didn't talk much."

Bakura perked up. "Eating dinner?"

"Yeah, I was shocked, too. I mean, if you call 'instant noodles' dinner..."

Bakura closed his eyes and let out a long breath. Instant noodles was better than nothing. "Okay. Thanks, Malik."

"Are you gonna tell me what happened?"

"It's nothing. Just—If you talk to Ryou again... Tell me, okay?"

"Wait, Bakura—"

Bakura hung up and allowed himself a moment to breathe. At least Ryou was eating something.

---

"I hope he wasn't lying," Bakura said, blowing out some smoke. He was sitting on the floor in Yuki's room, trying to smoke with his left hand, since his right hand was currently on Yuki's palm. A bottle of black nail polish was on the floor by her side, and she was hunched over his fingers with a look of intense concentration, the tip of her tongue sticking out of her mouth.

Rin frowned. "You think he'd lie about something like this?"

"I think he's capable of everything. And that the most annoying thing. He's so capable, so skilled, so goddamn brilliant, and he just refuses to let himself see that." Bakura brought his cigarette to his lips.

"Stop moving and relax your fingers," Yuki said.

Bakura rolled his eyes. "This is taking too long."

"It wouldn't take so long if you stood still for a goddamn minute." The nail polish brush was steady in her fingers. She moved it over one of Bakura's nails, covering it with shiny black pigment in one masterful swipe.

"Whatever," Bakura grumbled. He looked at his left hand, which was already done. Yuki had ordered him not to let his nails touch anything while the nail polish dried. Holding his cigarette like that was awkward but, truth be told, black nail polish looked cool on him. Yuki had been right.

"Have you tried telling him that?" Monica asked.

"Tell him what?"

Monica shrugged. "That he's... skilled and brilliant and all that."

Bakura watched the tiny brush as Yuki worked on the last of his right hand fingers. "No," he grumbled. "Even if I did, he'd probably think I was mocking him or something. He does that a lot. He doesn't believe anything I say."

"Wouldn't hurt to try."

"He wouldn't listen."

"He listened to you enough to actually eat some dinner."

Bakura fell silent at that. Yuki finished the last of his fingernails. "Done," she said, then pulled back to admire her work from afar. "What do you think?"

Bakura stretched out his fingers before him. The black polish was shiny and smooth, reflecting the light of the overhead lightbulb. He'd only obliged because Yuki had insisted on doing his nails, but damn, it looked badass. "Hey, thanks."

"They look great on you," Rin said.

"I bet Ryou will like them," Monica said with a grin, and Yuki snorted in laughter.

Bakura avoided their gazes and took a drag from his cigarette. It would be nice if Ryou liked them, though. If he ever agreed to see him again. Maybe tonight had been the last straw. Maybe not.

When he said that out loud, Yuki said, "Maybe try not yelling in his face the next time."

"And what was I supposed to do? How am I supposed to make him see what I see?"

The girls exchanged a look. Bakura didn't like their smiles. "Someone is smitten," Rin whispered. The girls giggled.

"I am not!" Bakura snapped.

Rin shrugged. "I never said you were smitten. I said someone."

"Right, sure you did," Bakura mumbled, scowling.

---

Malik was in the kitchen, with his laptop on the table in front of him, scrolling through mobile phone specs and comparing prices. His yami was in the living room; the only sound in the apartment was that of the TV.

Malik really didn't know if getting his yami a phone was the most efficient thing to do. Maybe he should go back to locking him in the bedroom. Maybe he should send him to Mrs Aiko in Tokyo. Maybe he should just kick him out and wash his hands from this responsibility, because hell, it wasn't his fault that Mariku returned this time. Not his fault. And then, when the time came, he would send him back to the afterlife along with Bakura, and then do his best to forget all about him.

There had to be a spell in the Millennium Spellbook that would lock the yamis away for good. Some sort of fail-proof seal. Because, if Malik had to go through this whole thing one more time, he would really lose it. He had to make sure, and live without the fear. He wanted to be able to get angry again. Maybe even shout once or twice. He wanted to feel free.

A mobile phone would have to do for now, even though it felt like accepting Mariku's presence as something permanent. It's just for a little while, he told himself again and again. Getting him a phone didn't mean that Mariku would stay here forever. It was just so that Malik wouldn't go off the rails with worry again. He would sell the phone afterwards, and this whole thing would be like it had never happened.

And what the hell had happened with Ryou and Bakura last night? Ryou wasn't answering his questions, and Bakura was being annoyingly quiet about it. Sure, them having a fight wasn't something unusual, but for Bakura to ask Malik to check if Ryou was okay...

Malik's phone rang, nearly making him jump in his seat. It was Yuugi.

"Hey, Yuugi. What's up?"

"Hey, Malik. How are you? How are things with... you know?"

Malik huffed. "Fine, I guess. Not great, but... manageable."

"Good. That's good to hear. So, uh... Atem and I think that we should all meet with Bakura as soon as possible. How does tomorrow evening sound? I get off work around six, and Ryou said he gets off at eight, so if we meet at nine it should be fine, right? My place. What do you think?"

"I'll have to be at work at nine. But that doesn't matter," he added quickly. "You should still meet without me."

"Oh, shoot. I was thinking that, the more we'll be, the better. You know, so that it'll be safer... For us. And so that we'll keep Atem and Bakura in line, should things get—intense."

"As long as Ryou will be there, you'll be fine. Trust me."

---

Malik made a small detour on his way to the Crow that evening, passing through the shopping district. Ryou's texts had been short and terse all day, and Malik couldn't shake off the feeling that something was wrong, so he decided to check on Ryou from up close. Maybe cornering him at his workplace was a dirty move, but there were only so many things Malik could worry about simultaneously. He needed to get at least one thing out of the way.

It was ten minutes after nine; Malik was a bit late for work, but he knew Reiji would cover his ass, so it would be fine. The stores all across the shopping district were closing their doors and drawing down their shutters; employees were dragging out large bags of trash. Malik made his way to the store Ryou worked at and slipped under the half rolled-down shutter.

Inside, employees were bustling about, tidying up as quickly as they could. Most of them knew Malik from the numerous times he'd come to pick Ryou up after quitting time, so they let him through no problem.

Ryou was in the back of the store, folding clothes with a pinched look on his face. As Malik approached, he noticed startling detail after startling detail. Had Ryou always been so thin? Malik would swear that he hadn't looked this emaciated the last time he saw him.

"Hey," Malik said, walking around a clothes rack.

Ryou lifted his head. His look darkened. "What are you doing here?"

"Wow, what a welcome."

Ryou's gaze returned to the shirt he was folding. "I'm working, Malik."

"I know. But I wanted to talk to you, and you weren't answering my calls, so..."

"Maybe I didn't wanna talk, you know."

Malik gave him a careful look. "Hey... Are you okay?"

Ryou's face spasmed. For a second, he looked like he was about to cry, but then the second passed and his face hardened again. "Never been better."

"You sure?" After a short silence, Malik added, "You got Bakura worrying, you know. Me, too."

Ryou's movements paused for the barest of seconds. Then he placed the folded shirt on a stack of identical shirts and picked up another one. "Well, you can tell him I'm absolutely fine."

"You don't sound fine."

"What do you want me to say, Malik?" Ryou said wearily. "That I'm happy? That I've got my life in order? That I know what I'm doing? Tell me what you wanna hear and I'll say it."

Malik frowned. "Dude... Wow. What did Bakura do this time?"

Ryou let out a long huff. He grabbed the next shirt with more force than necessary. "It's not Bakura."

"Then what's wrong?"

"Everything!" Ryou snapped. He glanced around to the other employees, but no one seemed to be paying attention to them. Still, Ryou lowered his voice to a hiss. "It's everything. Look at me. I'm wasting my life, day in, day out, going nowhere. And I'm not even trying to change it anymore. I've given up. Even Bakura can see it."

Malik blinked, taken aback. "Oh... So that's what he said to get you so riled up?"

"No, he—" Ryou huffed, then mumbled. "It doesn't matter. He was right, anyway."

"I never thought I'd hear you say that Bakura is right about something."

"Well, that's how badly I've fucked everything up."

"What do you mean?"

Ryou stood staring at the pile of clothes, working his jaw. "It's like... I dug a hole for myself and allowed myself to fall so deep in that I can't even begin to climb out." His eyes shimmered with sudden tears, and he blinked quickly, pushing them back down.

"I don't think that's true," Malik said quietly. He took a step closer to Ryou to put a hand on his shoulder. "You've had... plenty of shitty things piled up on you. Plenty of odds stacked against you. And you've fought bravely for a long time."

"No. I gave up arms a long time ago," Ryou said, voice thick.

Malik stayed silent for a while, squeezing Ryou's shoulder. "Well... Then maybe take up arms again, then."

"I don't even know how to do that." Ryou gently shook Malik's hand off of his shoulder. He picked up a shirt and started folding it. "I'm working full-time and studying and it still isn't enough. I'm barely holding it together and I don't know what else to do. Nothing I do ever works out. Nothing. It's all just—pointless. I'm working myself to the ground for a dead-end job and some dead-end studies and I don't even know why I'm doing this to myself. I'm twenty-nine years old and I—" He let his arms drop with a huff. "I'm sick of this shit, okay?"

Malik sighed softly. "I know. I know exactly how this feels. But this isn't forever. This," he gestured at the store around them, "is just a transitory phase. You'll finish your studies, and you'll move on, and things will work out in the end. I know it."

"Yeah, yeah," Ryou said bitterly. He grabbed another shirt. "I'll have a degree I hate, and another miserable job. Is this what I'm supposed to do till I get old?" He threw the shirt on a pile with enough force to cause puffs of dust to rise. "Is this it? Grinding through each day, barely getting by, hoping that some day my big chance is gonna show up? And what if it doesn't? What if... What if I just get old and crooked and too tired for this shit, and I'm still barely making enough to pay the bills? What if things never work out? What am I supposed to do then?"

Malik hesitated for a second. "Well, then maybe you... Maybe you don't wait for your chance to come up. Maybe you create it yourself. And I know you can do it. You are clever and capable, and you have friends that will help you and support you no matter what you choose—"

"Yeah, and see how well that has worked out for me so far," Ryou sneered. He huffed, grimacing as if he regretted saying that. "I'm sorry. I'm just... tired."

"I know," Malik said. "It's okay."

"I just don't know what to do."

"Maybe you don't have to do something today. Maybe today you need to go home, rest, have a nice meal and a good night's sleep. If you give yourself the space for it, maybe the answer will come to you."

Ryou snorted. "You sound like a life-coach."

"Well, I do have some sort of experience on how it feels to be stuck in a hole, and then fuck up badly on top of that," Malik said with a smirk.

Ryou sighed, but his face seemed quieter than before. "Well, then. Maybe I'll try that. Since nothing else works anyway..." He shrugged.

"Attaboy," Malik said.

Ryou picked up a shirt and folded it, his movements much calmer and more methodical than they had been. "You'll be at Yuugi's tomorrow?"

"Can't. Gotta be at the Crow."

Ryou hummed. "I thought so."

"I gotta say, I'm kinda bummed I won't be there. It's bound to be interesting."

"Or catastrophic."

"Nah. These guys didn't manage to destroy each other when they had magic and gods backing them up. They'll be like declawed cats now."

Ryou sighed. "We'll see."

---

To: Bakura, 21:05
Meeting with Atem and Yuugi tomorrow. Meet me outside my workplace at 8:30 pm. Don't be late.

---

Ryou went to bed early. No studying, no Spellbook session. No alcohol either; just a bowl of instant noodles. Come morning, he skipped uni and slept in. He doubted it would do much difference to his grades at this point, and he wasn't sure he cared.

He made some scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast. His brain was distant, as if someone else was picking up the fork to his mouth. But he did eat. He drank a cup of coffee, too, and had made a pact with himself to get a freshly squeezed juice before work later that day. He would make the juice himself, but there was no fruit in his kitchen; he hadn't bought any fruit or greens in a while. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember the last time he'd gone grocery shopping and bought something else besides instant noodles, coffee and vodka.

He had been surprised to find that half a carton of eggs in his fridge. He had been skeptical at first, because he couldn't for the life of him remember when he had bought them. He was afraid they would have gone bad, but they were fine.

There was this trick his mom had taught him, a long long time ago. See those eggs, Ryou? If you're not sure whether they're good to eat or not, put them in some water. If the egg floats, it has gone bad. If it sinks, it means it's good to eat.

So he'd done the trick with the water, feeling oddly numb. Amane had loved eggs—she'd loved sprinkling sugar on the runny yolk. Ryou would scrunch his nose whenever she did that, and she would laugh and hover a spoonful of sugary yolk towards him, telling him to try it.

He hadn't thought about his mother and Amane like that in a long time.

'What would your mother say if she saw the way you're treating yourself?'

He finished his breakfast. Then he took a shower. He combed his hair and brushed his teeth. Somewhere in the back of his head, his mom and Amane were watching.

My number is up; yours isn't, the Bakura in his head said.

He'd have to restock his kitchen. Get himself some actual food.

---

Bakura did as he was told. At 20:25 he was outside Ryou's workplace, wearing his best hoodie: a deep red one, for symbolism's sake. He was still the King of Thieves, and he wouldn't appear in front of that asshole of a pharaoh as anything less than that.

He'd gotten a coffee for Ryou, too. He had debated whether that was a good idea or not, because he had no clue how aggressive Ryou would be towards him after the incident from two days ago. In the end, he'd thought he'd let Ryou decide what to do with the coffee. If he threw it away, then so be it.

Ryou walked out of his workplace at half past eight, hastily wrapping a scarf around his neck. He looked around and spotted Bakura waiting by the door. "Hey," he said.

He was looking better. Much better. Still fearfully thin, but his eyes didn't look as dead, and there was a healthier color on his cheeks and his lips. Even his hair looked nicer than usual, neat and smooth.

Bakura paused for a second, taking him in. Then he extended the coffee cup. "I brought you some coffee."

"Oh... Um. Thanks." Ryou's eyes darted to Bakura's and away, as if afraid to look at him in the eye for too long. He took the coffee cup, then his gaze lingered on Bakura's hand. "You painted your nails."

"Oh, yeah." Bakura raised his hand to showcase Yuki's handiwork. "Cool, huh?"

Ryou looked down at his cup. He seemed almost bashful. "They're nice," he said quietly. Then he cleared his throat. "Come on. Let's get going."

Bakura would definitely tell that to Yuki when he went back to the Golden Egg that night.

It took them twenty minutes and a short bus ride to reach Mutou's place. They didn't talk at all on the way there, but Bakura couldn't stop glancing at Ryou, soaking up the changes on him. When they arrived, they paused for a while at the foot of a very modern, very clean, and very expensive-looking building.

Was this where the Mutou boy lived? Holy hell. That was quite an upgrade from that weird-looking game shop.

"You'd better behave," Ryou said.

"Look who's talking," Bakura smirked.

Ryou took a step forward and rang the bell.

.

.

.

.

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