This one is … important.
.
When Amane was born, Ryo remembered, their mother crocheted her a little blanket. Actually, she'd made it while pregnant in preparation for Amane, but Ryo still associated the blanket with his sister's birth because she'd been wrapped in it when his parents asked him if he'd like to hold her for the first time.
It was a powerful moment, something he would never be able to uncouple from his memories of her, of them all, and if there was anything he took comfort in, from his grief, it was that he still had that blanket. His mother used rainbow yarn to make it, and the colors swept through the patterns so gracefully that Ryo lost himself in it whenever he held it.
The rainbow blanket was so small now, so much smaller than he remembered, but he still kept it on his bed atop his comforter; he always made sure it was in its proper place when he slept. There was nothing to gain from it, not really, but it just didn't seem right to deny the rainbow blanket its purpose, just because it was small.
Just because Ryo couldn't feel its warmth didn't mean he wasn't warmer for having it there.
When Noa first saw the rainbow blanket, he was transfixed by it. Ryo wondered, in that moment, what he might say about it; what he might think of it. He wondered if Noa would find it strange, or funny, or weird. He wondered, in a dark part of himself where all his doubts loved to congregate, whether Noa's response to the rainbow blanket would break something between them. What if he said it was stupid? What if he thought it was ridiculous? Would Ryo ever be able to stop himself from hearing that his sister was stupid? That his mother was ridiculous?
He'd already lectured himself several times about it, reminding himself that it wasn't fair, that even if Noa said something hurtful it wasn't fair to hold it against him; he just didn't know. And being hurtful out of ignorance was never the same as being actively malicious.
But when Noa did see the rainbow blanket, he immediately took on the affect of an acolyte approaching an altar. He said, whispered really: "What's this . . . ?" in the softest voice Ryo had ever heard; he realized in that moment that he'd been worried about less than nothing.
Ryo said: "My mother made it for my sister."
Noa had been holding out a hand, to touch it perhaps, but he stopped dead.
"It's okay," Ryo said. "Go ahead."
Noa set his hand upon the blanket and continued to stare at it. "It's so small," he said.
"I know." Ryo nodded, more to himself than to his companion. "It's always bigger in my memories."
"The colors are still so . . . bright."
"I've tried my best to take care of it." Ryo gestured. "I keep it here, on my bed, because it feels like it belongs there. That's what a blanket's for. It's its job. You know? I don't want to force it to retire." He grimaced. "Is that dumb? It's dumb, isn't it?"
Noa turned to look at him, and his eyes were sparkling.
"I don't think it's dumb at all," he said, softly.
Ryo Bakura fell hopelessly, irretrievably, in love.