Ryou drops the last bottle in the bin, one hand curled on the rim of the sink. As the last vestiges of consciousness settle, he angles a glance into the mirror, locking eyes with his reflection. He looks the same as he always does, and although this method is rarely reliable, it reassures him of himself. He looks decisive and determined, which precisely matches the way he feels.

He clicks off the light as he leaves the bathroom and pads barefoot down the hall. It isn't the first time he's attempted to do this, but it's the first time removed from an imminent threat, and there's no one around to play last-minute savior. There is no white wizard, no Change of Heart, no duplicitous shadow magic. The situation calls only for Ryou, and he has included nobody else. He angles his body toward the shelf where he has been keeping the knife on display. If Bakura has taught him anything useful, it's the fine art of hiding things out in the open.

The cordless phone on the side table rings, and Ryou pauses mid-stride and mid-thought. It's a cold contemplation. Knife, or phone?

He reaches out to grasp the receiver.

"Hey," comes a voice, careless and familiar. "You're breathing weird. Are you all right?"

"It's me," Ryou says. As though that should explain it.

"Ah," returns Marik, as though it has. "Is Bakura there, then? He told me he'd call me."

Ryou snorts. He most certainly didn't. His soft spot for Marik is only so soft. "He can't talk just now. Try us back later."

"Why not? If you're there, he's there. Right?"

Ryou sighs and smiles, tilting his head; Marik has come to the crux of the problem. "Astute observation. But he really can't talk." Care of the dregs of every prescription his doctors and therapists ever granted. Alone, ineffective against the Ring-spirit; combined, a gateway to blessed silence. His head feels empty for the first time in years. He supposes the drugs might double their purpose as a time-elapsed, pre-packaged cause of death, but there's something he likes about the knife. It's very poetic, very Japanese. He'd considered the stiff British posh of a pistol, but the mess would ruin the aesthetic.

It feels strange to think about such things.

Marik's end of the line is too silent, a murmur of breathing and background noise. Ryou fancies that he can hear the drone of a television in the next room. Just as he's thinking of hanging up, his fingers itching back toward the knife, Marik finally clears his throat and speaks in a tone that is drastically different. "What did you do to Bakura, exactly."

It is not a question so much as a statement, but Ryou lets his arm fall away, returns his focus to the matter at hand. He owes Marik something, if only an answer. An acknowledgment of the ties that bind. "Nothing, just yet. He's out cold in the Ring."

"Then what are you planning? Ryou, please."

Ryou nods. The 'please' is good. His friends never seem to remember that far, at least where Bakura is somehow concerned. "I'm going to kill him. To kill us both." It's nice to finally say it out loud. It sounds final, real. Matter of fact. "I was just about to get started when you called. I'm not sure how long I can keep Bakura out, so I probably ought to hang up the phone. I'm sorry, I know you liked him a lot."

"Wait," says Marik. His voice cracks on the upward octave. "Ryou, wait, don't hang up. Let me come over, we can talk about this."

"Hm," Ryou says. "I can't really risk that. My plan rather hinged on the element of surprise, and it's over if he wakes up now. You know." He shrugs, although the gesture is pointless, and beneath the drugged calm comes a pang of regret. Marik is very alone in the world. "He would have wanted to tell you goodbye. I'm honestly sorry, I just don't have much choice."

"Don't hang up," says Marik again. Ryou hears fumbling in the background, the swish of leather, the jangle of keys. A door slams shut and an engine revs. "Just hear me out," Marik pleads, his voice nearly swallowed by the roar of his bike. "I'm begging you, please. Just wait til I get there."

"I can't promise anything. Don't assume that I will."

"Who benefits if you die to kill him? You won't, you'll be dead. Who does it help?"

Marik is practically shouting now. Ryou tilts the phone from his ear.

"Who does it help?" Marik demands. "The Yugi gang? Who cares about them! They don't give a flying fuck about us!"

"Hm," murmurs Ryou, retrieving the knife. It gleams to reflect the soft gold of the lamplight, an elegant, almost artistic touch. He appreciates the gravity Marik is giving this. His school friends would have assumed he was joking, or perhaps that he hadn't the will to go through with it. Yet Marik seems to have his number, even if his concern is centered elsewhere. It's ironic, actually. He tries not to dwell. "He uses me to do terrible things, and the people I'm close to always get hurt. You know what it's like, if I'm not much mistaken, though I admit I missed the finer points of most of what happened at Battle City."

Marik hesitates. Ryou continues. The knife has a well-balanced heft that he likes.

"When I'm not isolated in my own head, I have to isolate myself in reality to keep him from finding new people to harm. I don't have friends; I don't have family. My death will hurt no one, least of all me." Ryou cradles the phone with his shoulder, nestling the tip of the blade at his wrist. His blood weaves in delicate tributaries of blue, contained for the moment beneath his pale skin. "It'll keep my friends safe. That's enough of a reason."

"Thought you just said you didn't have friends."

Ryou presses his lips together, catching the error in retrospect. Damn. He'd been trying to choose his words with care, but Marik has gotten him talking too much, and the drugs have probably muddled his thought processes. "They're the closest thing to it, but it's not that important. Regardless, innocent people will benefit."

"It's not black and white. You of all people…"

"I know," Ryou murmurs, eyes on his arm. It's one thing to resolve to die; it's another entirely to cut his own flesh, to push the blade into his skin and slice through its layers to get at the blood. The mechanics of it make him nauseous. He'll probably have to try more than once. "I'm aware there's something in his past. Maybe he's justified; I wouldn't know. He's never told me. I've asked several times." Bakura's mind reminds him of steel. What little he knows only heightens the mystery. "Has he told you?"

"I know a little."

"I guess he really has come to like you. I didn't realize he was capable."

"He's my friend," says Marik, "my closest—my only one. It's beyond screwed up and he can barely admit it, but it keeps us all right—he keeps me sane, Ryou, please."

Ryou laughs, and he expects it to ring hollow, but it bubbles up truer than he's laughed in months. His amusement is genuine. His head feels light. "You do see the irony."

"I know and so does he, but I can talk to him, he's complicated. If you understood what he's trying to do… We could be friends, and I don't mean like Yugi's group says it then ignores you, I mean actual friends. It's different when you're not the only one broken."

The tip of the blade presses into his wrist, indenting the skin just short of breaking through. It is not quite as sharp as he would have liked, but the need for secrecy overshadowed perfection regarding this particular detail. He will just have to grit his teeth and get on with it. "I really do need to hang up the phone. I've been pushing my luck enough as it is."

Marik's voice leaps as the engine cuts out. "You have to let me talk to you first. Face to face, I'm almost there."

"The door is locked," says Ryou, locking it. "And I'm going to go through with it, so please don't interfere." Something stirs at the back of his mind, like the tiniest ripple in a vast pool of water. It's now or never, and his plans are for now. He repositions the point of the knife; while his fingers are freezing, his hands are steady. "I'm sorry, Marik. I know he was fond of you. You can try if you'd like, but I'm hanging up now."

"Ryou!" shouts Marik, backed now by heavy breathing rather than the engine's growl. Ryou can almost hear him sprinting up the stairwell. He clicks off the receiver and sets it on the sofa, then stares once more at the harsh lines of the blade against his flesh. When he finally applies the proper force, he is amazed by the ease of the incision. It is far less troublesome in application than in theory, and although he can already hear banging at the door, the cuts are deep and his blood flows easily, and his delicate build aids in the onset of lightheadedness. Bakura's presence flickers through his brain, but it fades before he can achieve coherency. Ryou leans his head back against the couch.

Perhaps he has made the right decision and perhaps he has made the wrong one, but it's out of his control by now, and the only regret that really sticks is the denial of Bakura and Marik's goodbye. Still, he thinks as he grasps the Ring, smearing his blood across the gold. There's always the chance that Marik will reach him. He sounded determined enough on the phone.

Determined and desperate and reckless and scared. Almost like anguish, something like love.

Ryou's lips twist into a smile, and he falls back into the blur of unconsciousness.

…

(Author's Note: I've not been so active on this site lately due to other projects and some things and stuff, but this idea popped into my mind a few days ago, and I haven't been able to let it go. I got so wrapped up in it that at one point I was writing lines in the steam on the bathroom mirror while I was in the shower. It's a little off my usual style, but I enjoyed working on it for that very reason. I hope that it turned out okay.)