Morro's hand trembled faintly as he reached into his pocket, pulling out the lily he'd found earlier in the waking world. The delicate petals shimmered faintly in the soft glow of the train's lighting, their scent alluring but unfamiliar. He had no idea what it was or what effect it might have, but the pull to remain here, to help Yami, outweighed his caution.
"What's the worst it could do?" Morro muttered to himself, bringing the lily closer. He inhaled its scent deeply, the sweet, earthy fragrance filling his senses. A strange wave of calm washed over him, followed by a gentle tug that seemed to anchor him more deeply in the dream. Somewhere, in the distant waking world, his physical body relaxed further, sinking into an even deeper sleep. Here, in the dreamscape, he felt strangely alert, more present than before.
Steeling himself, Morro knelt down beside the bunk where Yami still sat, his crimson eyes distant, unfocused. The Pharaoh's earlier torment lingered in the faint shivers running through his form, the weight of the nightmare still heavy on his shoulders.
"Hey," Morro said softly, his sage-and-emerald-green eyes steady as he looked at Yami. "Are you okay?" The question was gentle, almost knowing, and Yami turned to him, his crimson eyes flickering with a mixture of exhaustion and emotion.
Yami exhaled shakily, his hands clenching faintly around the blanket draped across his lap. "No," he admitted quietly, his voice trembling but honest. "I... I don't think I am."
Morro nodded, his expression softening as he settled more comfortably on the floor beside the bunk. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, his tone patient. "About what you were dreaming?"
Yami hesitated, his gaze dropping as he grappled with the emotions swirling inside him. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and burdened. "It was the duel," he began. "The Seal of Orichalcos. The moment... the moment I lost Yugi's spirit."
Morro's chest tightened, the vivid memory of Yami's previous description flashing through his mind. He stayed silent, letting Yami continue at his own pace.
"Rafael... he was my opponent," Yami said, his voice tinged with bitterness and sorrow. "During the duel, he claimed that I was once an evil Pharaoh. That I ruled with cruelty, selfishness... that I destroyed lives in my pursuit of power." Yami paused, his fists trembling faintly. "I wanted to deny it, to reject it outright. But the truth is..." He trailed off, his voice faltering.
Morro tilted his head, his sage-and-emerald-green eyes narrowing slightly. "Don't you remember?" he asked gently. "Anything from before Yugi reassembled the Millennium Puzzle?"
Yami's gaze faltered, his expression tightening as he shook his head slowly. "No," he admitted, his voice barely audible. "I don't. Not a single memory of my past... of who I was before Yugi. All I have are fragments, shadows of something I can't quite reach. And Rafael's words..." He exhaled shakily. "They made me question everything. What if he was right? What if I was a cruel Pharaoh?"
Morro reached out, placing a steady hand on Yami's arm. His touch was firm but grounding, a quiet reassurance. "Maybe you don't remember yet," Morro said softly, "but that doesn't mean you're the same person now. Whoever you were back then... you're not him anymore. Yugi saw who you are now—the person who's standing here, fighting for others. That's who matters."
Yami's crimson eyes shimmered faintly with unshed tears as he looked at Morro, gratitude flickering in his gaze. The quiet weight of the dreamscape seemed to shift slightly, the oppressive edge easing as the connection between them deepened.
Wiping his trembling hands across his face, Yami brushed away the tears that clung stubbornly to his eyes. His voice was quiet but raw as he finally spoke, each word carrying the heavy weight of his regret. "I knew," he murmured, his tone uneven. "I knew what the Seal demanded. Its power wasn't free. It comes at a cost—a cost I was willing to risk. And yet... I still played it."
Morro stayed silent, kneeling beside the bunk and watching Yami with an intensity that felt both understanding and unyielding. He could feel the torment in Yami's words, the way they wove grief and self-recrimination into something almost unbearable.
"I thought..." Yami continued, his voice breaking. "I thought I could control it. That it wouldn't come to that. That I could win without having to pay the price it demanded. I should have listened to Yugi. He warned me, begged me not to use it." His hands clenched faintly around the blanket. "But my pride... my desperation to win, to protect what mattered, blinded me."
Yami's gaze flickered as he looked down at his trembling hands. "To make things worse, I locked him away," he said, his voice trembling. "I used the power of the Millennium Puzzle to seal him off, to keep him out of the battle. I thought I was protecting him. I thought that if I could just keep him safe—if I could just bear the weight of the Seal alone—it would be enough."
Morro's sage-and-emerald-green eyes glistened faintly as he listened, his expression soft but intent. He could hear the storm of guilt in Yami's voice, the regret that seeped into every syllable.
"But Yugi didn't stay away," Yami whispered, his voice cracking. "He didn't accept being shut out—not even for his own safety. He broke the seal I'd placed around him. He used the Puzzle to free himself, and..." Yami's breath hitched as his hands tightened into fists. "He stepped into the Seal's wake. He took my place. The price that was meant for me—he paid it instead."
Yami's shoulders shuddered, fresh tears spilling down his face as he struggled to steady his voice. "He shouldn't have done it," he murmured. "He should have let the Seal take me. It was my mistake, my pride, my failure to control the power I unleashed. But he... he gave himself up for me."
Morro hesitated for a moment before placing a gentle hand on Yami's arm, his grip steady but comforting. "He didn't do it because you failed," Morro said softly, his voice filled with quiet conviction. "He did it because he believed in you. Because he saw something in you that was worth saving."
Yami looked at him, his crimson eyes filled with grief and uncertainty but flickering faintly with something else—a fragile spark of gratitude, perhaps, or the faintest glimmer of hope.
"You're not alone in this," Morro added, his tone firm. "Not now, and not when it happened. And maybe... maybe that's why I'm here. To remind you of that."
Yami's trembling hand then reached out and clasped Morro's firmly, his eyes shimmering with emotions too deep and tangled to fully unravel. His grip tightened faintly, a quiet plea for grounding as the weight of his fears pressed against him. For a long moment, he didn't speak, his gaze dropping to the blanket draped across his lap.
"I still have it," Yami murmured at last, his voice low and uneven. "The card you gave me—the Core Card of Yugi. I've held onto it... but I'm scared, Azai. I don't want to admit it, but I'm scared out of whatever wits I have left."
Morro tilted his head slightly, his sage-and-emerald-green eyes flickering with quiet empathy. He tightened his grip just a fraction, his presence steady and grounding, silently urging Yami to continue.
"The Core Cards... only those who hold the cores trapped within them can set those cores free," Yami explained, his voice trembling. "The longer a core is separated from its body, the fainter the card's image becomes. It's like watching the spirit of the person fade—little by little—until there's nothing left."
His crimson eyes glistened faintly as he raised them to meet Morro's. "But Yugi's image... it hasn't faded. Not even a fraction. It's still bright, still clear, still... whole. I don't understand. I don't know if it's a trick, if the card is holding out on me, or if there's something else at play." He exhaled shakily, his voice cracking. "What if it's false hope? What if I can never reach him?"
Morro hesitated for a moment before reaching out, his other hand resting gently over Yami's. "What if it's something else?" Morro offered softly, his tone steady but thoughtful. "What if it means Yugi's still holding on, waiting for you to bring him back?"
Yami's gaze flickered, his crimson eyes shimmering with the faintest spark of possibility. He held the card tighter, his fingers trembling as he clung to the fragile hope buried within Morro's words.
"What if..." Yami whispered, his voice almost inaudible. "What if it's a sign? A sign that... that he hasn't given up on me?"
Morro nodded faintly, his sage-and-emerald-green eyes unwavering. "I think he hasn't," he said simply. "The bond you two share—it's stronger than this. And maybe that's why his image hasn't faded. Maybe it's why you're still holding that card."
The train's rhythmic hum filled the quiet of the sleeping car, grounding them both as Yami tightened his grip on the card and on Morro's hand. Though the fear remained, the faint glimmer of hope flickered within his heart, refusing to fade.
Morro drew in a quiet breath, his sage-and-emerald-green eyes flickering as he turned back to Yami. "I think I understand more now," he said softly. "In my earlier dream, I felt like I was stepping into someone else's shoes—Joey's, until that moment when I hugged you. But... did Joey try to wake you up? Did he do the same thing I did?"
Yami's crimson eyes softened slightly, his expression laced with a mixture of sorrow and reflection. "Yes," he murmured, his voice low but steady. "Joey did try to wake me up. He was there, alongside Téa and Tristan. They all were. But... Joey kept calling me 'Yugi.'"
Morro tilted his head, curiosity and confusion threading through his expression. "He called you Yugi?" he repeated quietly. "Why? Was it to mock you or—?"
"No," Yami interrupted, shaking his head. His voice carried no anger, only a quiet understanding. "It wasn't mockery. Joey and the others... they don't know my real name. They've never known. To them, I'm simply Yugi's other self. They can't tell when I switch—when I switched—with Yugi in battle. And I... I never told them otherwise."
Morro's brow furrowed as he absorbed Yami's explanation, his gaze dropping slightly. "So, to them, you're just... Yugi," he murmured, his voice thoughtful. "They didn't even know when you were the one in control."
Yami nodded faintly, his eyes clouded with reflection. "It was easier that way," he admitted softly. "Yugi and I shared the same body, the same life, and I didn't want to create confusion or distance between him and his friends. They've always been his strength, his heart. I didn't want to take that away from him."
Morro's chest tightened slightly as he looked at Yami, the depth of his connection to Yugi and his selflessness coming into sharper focus. "But... didn't it hurt?" Morro asked after a moment, his voice quiet but earnest. "Being called by someone else's name, not being known for who you are?"
Yami hesitated, his gaze dropping as he clasped his hands together. "It did," he admitted, his voice trembling faintly. "But I accepted it. Yugi's happiness, his bond with Joey, Téa, and Tristan... that mattered more to me than being recognized for myself. And even now... I still don't know who I truly am. Perhaps it's better that they never knew."
The faint hum of the train echoed around them, filling the quiet space as Morro processed Yami's words. The shared struggle between their identities—Yami's sacrifice for Yugi's well-being, and the uncertainty of his own past—resonated deeply within Morro, tying their experiences together in ways he hadn't expected.
Morro's grip on Yami's hand tightened, his sage-and-emerald-green eyes shimmering with unshed tears as he drew a steadying breath. The quiet hum of the train seemed to fade into the background, the weight of the moment pressing heavily between them. He leaned closer, his voice trembling but firm as he spoke.
"When you find Yugi," Morro said softly, his tone layered with quiet conviction, "you need to show him through words and actions that you're sorry. It's not enough to just say it. He needs to feel it—know it—through everything you do."
Yami's crimson eyes widened faintly, the depth of Morro's emotions catching him off guard. But before he could respond, Morro's voice broke slightly, his tears spilling over as he began to cry, his shoulders shaking with the weight of his own pain. The flood of emotion seemed to surprise him, as though he hadn't realized the full strength of it until now.
"Morro..." Yami murmured, his voice soft and filled with concern. "Why? Why are you crying?"
Morro looked at him, his sage-and-emerald-green eyes glistening as his voice cracked with raw vulnerability. "Because I know the pain of what happens... when you're betrayed by the one who loves you the most," he admitted quietly, his tone trembling but steady enough to carry. "My sensei—Wu, the only father I've ever known—did that to me."
Yami's grip on Morro's hand tightened instinctively, his crimson eyes flickering with empathy as he listened intently.
"I don't know..." Morro continued, his voice faltering as he wiped at his tears. "I don't know whether Wu understood the cost—whether he knew it would be so high. But it hurts. It's a pain that stays with you. And Yugi... he probably hurts right now too."
Yami's gaze softened, his crimson eyes filled with quiet understanding as he reached out, his other hand resting over Morro's trembling one. "I'm sorry," Yami murmured, his voice steady but filled with sincerity. "I'm sorry for what Wu did to you, and for the pain you've carried because of it."
Morro shook his head faintly, his sage-and-emerald-green eyes meeting Yami's. "You're not the one who needs to apologize for that," he said softly. "But you can make things right with Yugi. Don't let his pain linger—show him through everything you are that he matters."
The quiet of the train enveloped them once again, the rhythmic hum grounding the intensity of their exchange. Yami held onto Morro's hand tightly, the fragile but steady connection between them deepening. Though the fears and sorrows of the moment remained, there was a shared resolve to face them—to mend what had been broken, piece by piece.
The atmosphere in the train sleeping car shifted, heavy with emotion as Morro's trembling form crumpled into Yami's arms, his strength faltering completely. For a moment, Yami froze, panic flashing in his crimson eyes as the sudden weight pressed against him. He stiffened, unsure what had happened or how to respond.
But then, Yami heard it—the quiet, anguished sobs rising from Morro's chest, raw and heartbreaking. Morro's words broke through the silence, fragmented and trembling. "I think I know... what Yugi feels like," he managed to whisper, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. "Because... Wu's actions... were what led to me losing my soul once."
Yami's breath hitched, his crimson eyes widening faintly. The pain in Morro's voice was palpable, cutting through the air like the sharpest blade. It was the kind of pain Yami recognized, the kind that lived in the deepest corners of his own heart.
Morro tried to continue, his voice trembling as he fought to speak, but the words wouldn't come. His shoulders shook violently as he buried his face against Yami's chest, sobbing his heart out, the storm of grief too overwhelming to hold back.
Yami stared down at him, the weight of Morro's confession pressing heavily on his chest. He didn't say anything—he couldn't. The pain Morro was carrying wasn't something words could fix, and Yami knew all too well what it felt like to be lost in that kind of torment. So instead, he acted.
Slowly, carefully, Yami tightened his arms around Morro, his movements deliberate but gentle. He embraced the younger teen fully, his grip steady and grounding, as if trying to shield him from the storm raging within. Yami's own pain mingled with Morro's, the shared understanding creating a bond that transcended the dreamscape itself.
"I'm sorry," Yami murmured softly, his voice low but filled with quiet sincerity. "I'm so sorry, Azai."
But he didn't press further. He didn't demand more words or explanations from Morro. Instead, he simply held him, letting the quiet hum of the train and the warmth of their shared connection carry them through the moment. In that fragile embrace, neither of them was alone.
In the quiet glow of the train sleeping car, Morro's sobs began to subside, his breathing evening out as the storm of emotions gradually settled. Yami's arms remained steady around him, his presence grounding and warm. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the hum of the train filling the silence, gentle and rhythmic like a heartbeat.
Then, Yami broke the quiet, his voice a low whisper. "Thank you," he murmured, his crimson eyes soft as he gazed at Morro. "For staying. For listening. You didn't have to, and yet... you did."
Morro nodded faintly, his sage-and-emerald-green eyes still glistening with traces of tears. "I couldn't just leave," he whispered in return, his tone steady but filled with an earnestness that belied his young age. "Not when I knew you were hurting. Sometimes... knowing someone's there is all that keeps the darkness away."
Yami's gaze flickered with emotion, a faint but genuine warmth in his features. "It does," he admitted quietly. "You remind me of him—of Yugi. Of his strength, his unwavering heart. It's a kindness I didn't realize I needed."
The two shared a brief, meaningful silence before Yami spoke again, his voice even softer this time. "I don't know who I was before all of this," he admitted. "But in moments like these, I feel like I can become someone better. Someone worthy of the faith people like Yugi... and you... have in me."
Morro's lips quivered faintly, his sage-and-emerald-green eyes flickering with an understanding born of his own struggles. "You already are," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "You just have to believe it too."
The dreamscape began to shift around them, the edges blurring as the train sleeping car grew hazy and distant. Yami's grip on Morro's hand tightened slightly, as if to anchor them both in the fleeting moment, but neither spoke. Instead, they let the quiet connection linger, the unspoken bond between them solidifying in the space of a breath.
And then, as softly as the dream had begun, it faded entirely.
Morro's eyes fluttered open in the stillness of the waking world, the faint light of the moon filtering into the camp. He lay on the moss-covered ground, the weight of the dream still pressing gently against his chest. Turning his head slightly, he noticed his friends—Zeph, Jirii, Silbón—all fast asleep, their breathing even and undisturbed.
For a long moment, Morro lay there, staring at the stars above as the remnants of the dream washed over him. The warmth of Yami's embrace lingered faintly on his skin, and his thoughts swirled with the unspoken truths they had shared. Somewhere, deep in his chest, Morro felt the faintest flicker of hope—that both he and Yami might find the pieces they needed to feel whole again.
