Work Text:
It starts like this: the caustic rumble of the plane, and the unending stretch of white below.
Ryou doesn’t like flying. He hates it, actually, has done ever since he was a child, and the long journey from Haneda to Luxor, layovers and all, is gruelling. He’s in the window seat, caged in by a couple who fell asleep two hours in and haven’t stirred since, which translates to nearly a full day’s worth of silently trying to occupy as little space as possible. It’s not so different from his usual morning routine on the train—book-in-lap, headphones-in-ears, and eyes-resolutely-fixed-on-the-page—and all he’s got with him is his grungy carry-on knapsack, teeming with books and books and books of his hastily scribbled out notes.
But really, a café would be a much more civilised place to do such a thing. Too bad there are no Sennen Items in Domino.
There’s a rustle in the aisle, the shimmy of tights and the light bump of the trolley against the trembling floor. Out of politeness, Ryou looks up from his book at the flight attendant, who’s struggling with the massive cart she’s been given to push. Valiantly, she leans across the slumbering tourists beside him and asks, “Crackers, sir?”
“No thank you,” Ryou says, and, to let her know he really means it, turns the page.
Actually, it starts like this: his father’s office at the museum, pumped full of cool air every three minutes and forty-five seconds to preserve the surrounding exhibits’ temperature.
Ryou isn’t invited here often—under his mother’s iron fist, he goes to school, picks Amane up from her classroom two floors down from his, and spends the rest of the afternoon studying for middle school entrance exams. But father’s had a major breakthrough, which apparently means he can’t walk down the four flights of stairs to the cafeteria and requires a homemade lunch. Truthfully, Ryou doesn’t mind never visiting He can go to the museum to see the exhibits whenever he wants, without the extra hassle of having to talk to the stern men at the security desk, who call his father to come pick him up every time as if an eleven year old can’t walk up two flights of stairs by himself.
As it turns out, his father is terribly busy, so he sends Professor Yoshimori to come fetch him downstairs in his stead. Ryou rather likes Professor Yoshimori: he’s nice, and always tells him about his latest expeditions, usually somewhere very far away that Ryou has never heard of.
This upcoming trip, though, he knows all about. This trip is his father’s trip: the big trip, the one he’s heard his parents argue about when he eavesdrops on the phone line, the expensive one, the one sponsored by the university. The Valley of Kings trip.
Professor Yoshimori pauses outside the door of his father’s office, and places a hand firmly on Ryou's shoulder.
“Your father is a little tied up right now,” he explains sheepishly, rubbing the scraggy stubble on his chin. “The documents he’s translating are—well, they’re very difficult, and he really needs to focus. And you see, we need to finish them before we leave, or, well. You understand, don’t you?”
Ryou nods, uncomprehending, and lets the professor take the bento from his hands.
“I’ll check in on him later tonight, tell him to give your mom a call,” Professor Yoshimori reassures him—which is completely unnecessary, since Ryou doesn’t care either way—and leans down to tweak his ear. “You’re a good kid. Thanks.”
Ryou takes this as a dismissal. When Professor Yoshimori knocks on the office door, he slinks away before it cracks open, out of the entryway and down the hallway. Making his way leisurely to the staircase, he can't resist peering at the strange decorations tacked to the wall. There are all kinds of maps, photocopies of items that look about a million years old, and pictures of weird pottery and eyes. So many eyes, bright, golden eyes that stare out at him from the wallpaper.
A discomfiting impulse—wrong, wrong, wrong—grips his heart tight. Folding into himself, only just a little, he shivers. Leave, the impulse commands, and without a second thought he’s stumbling down the hallway, taking the stairs down two at a time.
The security guards glare at him like he’s just knocked one of the ancient fruit bowls off its perch. Under his fringe, Ryou glares back, and stomps the rest of the way to his mother’s car.
“Thank you again for coming on such short notice,” the older man says, sliding his glasses off for what must be the fifth time in as many minutes to wipe off the lenses on his sleeve. “We don’t have anybody else at the department who’s seen the original documents, so it’s a real favour you’re doing us here.”
Ryou shakes his head, though only because it’s the polite thing to do. It’s a hole in the wall, this place: a camp set up by the on-site archaeologists is already a challenge to make nice with the museum’s budget, let alone with the meagre funds they’ve allocated to this project. He can’t blame them, after the mess with Egypt Unearthed and Kanekura’s sudden death. After what happened to his father.
“I know how important this expedition is for the museum,” he says instead. “How could I say no?”
Mutou slips his glasses back on. “You really are your father’s son,” he says. He hesitates for a moment, then sets a tentative hand on Ryou’s shoulder. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but I think if he could see you now, he would be so pleased with how you’ve continued his work.”
Wanly, Ryou smiles.
Mutou clears his throat, gives his shoulder another squeeze. “You must be starving—I’ll show you to the canteen. It’ll give you a chance to relax after your flight.”
The trip begins with little fanfare. His father packs a bag full to the brim with clothes, all folded and pressed neatly by his mother in the days leading up to his departure.
Amane cries big, fat tears, which stain the front of her dress terribly, and clings to his leg, convulsing sobs wracking her little body. She wants him to stay, Ryou knows, because he loves her best. She visits him in the office every Friday and sits on his lap and listens to him explain his work, so it’s understandable why he would prefer her to his eldest, who, according to his uncles, is rather more like a girl than she is anyway.
Silently, Ryou stands beside his mother and watches. It’s silly, how much energy she’s putting into this fight. He knows their father well enough by now to know he would never cancel this trip, and certainly not for Amane’s silly reasons.
“That’s enough, darling,” his mother says, finally, when it’s clear papa’s ineffectual pats aren’t helping anything. Stepping out from behind Ryou, she reaches out to grasp Amane by the wrist and gently pulls her away into the circle of her embrace. “We’ll go to the store and get some ice cream later,” she cajoles. “And then when papa lands tomorrow, we can call him. How’s that sound, hmm?”
Amane whimpers into their mother’s skirt, shaking her head, but Ryou knows she’s just doing it for show at this point and that she’ll give in soon. He rolls his eyes. For someone who’s nearly reached double digits, his sister really does act like such a kid.
“Ryou,” his father says, suddenly. “C’mere, give me a hug. I’ve hardly seen you all week.”
It’s a strange request, since that doesn’t usually bother him, but Ryou is grateful to have some distraction from his sister’s whimpering. Dutifully, he trudges over to his father and allows himself to be hugged, hands hanging limp at his sides.
“You be good for your mother,” his father says, crouching, hands on his knees. “And if anything happens, you know how to reach me at work. International calls are expensive, though, so use the phone wisely, alright?”
Ryou nods, chewing on his lip. His father is looking right into his eyes, which makes him feel like some kind of artefact, so he decides to avert them to the floor rather than meet his gaze.
“Good man,” his father says, and slaps him lightly on the back before rising to his full height. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
Ryou takes a step back, watching as his father grabs his massive suitcase, his usual briefcase slung as always over his chest. Like this, he looks like a soldier heading off to battle, armoured in leather and wrinkled tweed.
His mother, separating herself from Amane’s clinging limbs, grabs a scarf from the coat hooks and winds it around his neck. Savouring the moment, she knots it, ending the tie with a flourish. “You never know what the weather will be like,” she says, a whisper of humour in her eyes, and kisses him full on the mouth.
“Gross,” Ryou complains, faking a retch into the sleeve of his hoodie
Amane, only pouting now, imitates the gesture with an exaggerated retch of her own. “Yeah, papa,” she echoes. “Gross.”
Their father laughs. He’s always liked the way papa laughs when he really means it: the kind of laugh that bubbles up from his belly, full-bodied and warm. “You’ll understand someday,” he says, reaching over to muss up Ryou’s hair. “I promise, you won’t think kissing is so gross in a year or two.”
Their mother swats him. “You’re going to miss your flight if you dawdle any longer,” she says, sounding kind of angry, though the smile twitching at her lips makes him think she’s faking it. “Get out of here, Hide.”
Leaning in, their father kisses her again—Ryou crinkles his eyebrows in disapproval—and waves at him and Amane. Unfortunately for Ryou, she’s now grabbed onto his hoodie and refuses to be shaken off. Weird little monkeys, nine year olds are.
“I’ll call soon,” his father promises. “Love you.”
Before Amane can protest any further, he steps out into the darkness. The second he’s gone, the strong winds push the door back on its hinges. It clicks shut conclusively.
And that’s that.
The canteen, all things considered, is nicer than Ryou expected. The food is rich and fresh, which he thinks must be because it was made with local ingredients, though he has no idea where any shops or markets could be in this desolate stretch of rock. Probably somewhere closer to Luxor, if he had to guess.
Mutou’s sat next to him on the bench, head buried in the day’s paper, which is slightly odd given that it must be fairly late in the evening. Noticing the odd look, the older man laughs. “No breakfast this morning, I’m afraid,” he explains. “I was working until noon. Takehiro had to come unearth me from my work to remind me to pick you up.”
“I’m used to keeping strange hours at home,” Ryou says, and takes another bite of the pasta-like dish. “In our line of work, I fear it’s probably the norm.”
Letting out a chuckle, Mutou sets the paper down. “Too true,” he says. “That explains why you’re so chipper. Not that I’m complaining—it’s for the best around these parts to be nocturnal. Jetlag is the modern archaeologist’s biggest impediment.”
Ryou smiles at that. It sounds like something his father might have said at a dinner party when he was younger, surrounded by all his colleagues and friends from Domino University. He attended many such get-togethers during his youth, though only as an observer, sticking to his mother’s side as she flitted about the room collecting dirty dishes and pouring more wine whenever needed.
Mutou allows the silence to drag on for a moment before, attention caught by a passing figure, he rises slightly and beckons at someone in the crowd queuing for the buffet. “Bakhura,” he calls out, loudly. Several people raise their heads at that. “Come here for a moment, would you?”
There’s nothing Ryou hates more than being stared at in public. Embarrassed, and hoping to make himself look as busy as possible so the stranger doesn’t think him as sociable as his companion, he gazes intently into the steaming heap of rice on his plate. Bad enough that Mutou has taken to him so kindly—another orbiter at his shoulder would make getting any work done impossible.
It takes a moment before the stranger, Bakhura, joins them. The heat of his body presses uncomfortably on Ryou’s back. Though it’s perhaps impolite, Ryou doesn’t raise his eyes to look at him. Better to be impolite than to encourage closeness in anyone associated with this place, anyway.
“Good evening, Sugoroku,” the stranger says coolly. His voice is high and nasal, accented just enough to betray that he isn’t a native speaker, though obviously a practiced one. “I see you’re enjoying the koshari.”
“As always, your colleagues astound me,” Mutou says, raising his glass. Met only by silence, he clears his throat and says, “I apologise, I didn’t mean to take you from the queue. I must admit, this isn’t entirely a social call. There’s actually someone I want you to meet, the man I told you about yesterday.”
Ryou suppresses a grimace. Self-introduction: yet another practice he disdains. “I’m Bakura,” he says, and turns to meet the stranger’s gaze. “It’s—”
The words die in his throat. He doesn’t quite understand why; the man looks normal enough, save for the shock of white hair brushing his shoulders and his light eyes, unusual for his dark complexion. But there’s a feeling that presses down on Ryou’s pulse when he looks at him, squeezing so hard he can hardly breathe, whispering wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong—louder and louder and louder, drowning out everything else, so loud he can’t even think.
“Well, that might be slightly confusing,” the man says, grasping the hand, hanging stiffly between them, that Ryou had intended to offer him to shake. “Seeing as I’m Bakhura as well.”
wrongwrongwroNGWRONGWRONGWRONGWRONG
Hastily, Ryou pulls his hand back. The ghost of Bakhura’s fingers on his flesh burns with absurd wrongness all the way down to the bone, like he’d reached through the skin and tugged at his veins.
Bakhura doesn’t seem surprised. His eyes—such a cool brown, so light and hollow they seem almost purple in the harsh canteen lighting—pin Ryou in place, wound up so tightly his chest aches.
“Ah, then we can rely on Japanese customs,” Mutou says obliviously. “Unlike you, my guest has two names—Bakura is the name of his family, but Ryou was the one given to him by his parents. If he doesn’t mind, I’m sure you could use his given name to avoid any confusion.”
Ryou shakes his head, and then nods, unsure of which gesture would be an appropriate sign of his agreement. He’s frazzled, brain operating at a fraction of its normal speed, all his internal wiring bluntly severed and sparking. The dull throb of wrong oozes down his veins, molten at the pit of his stomach.
“Excellent,” says Bakhura, and smiles blandly. “I very much look forward to working with you, Ryou. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Mutou chuckles. “I must admit, I did get a little overexcited when I found out you had agreed to come,” he confesses. “But you should know, you’re not the only famous one around these parts. Bakhura here is our guide to the tombs, translator, and the museum’s liaison to just about anything local that you can imagine. He really is indispensable to the team, and of course essential to your part in our work here, as you might imagine.”
“Right,” says Ryou, blinking himself out of his stupor. “Of course.”
“I’m happy to help any way I can,” Bakhura says. “What little I’ve been told about your father’s research fascinates me. You see, my family lived for many generations in a village quite near the Valley of Kings, which was destroyed by imperial forces over three thousand years ago. Since then, we’ve dispersed, but this valley has always been of great importance to me.” He pauses for a moment, as if searching for the right words—a false gesture, because Ryou is astute enough to realise that there’s nothing incidental about any of this—and then says, “I presume you know all about its history, though. Sugoroku told me that you’ve been here before, a long time ago now.”
Mutou shoots him an anxious look. Obviously, he hadn’t condoned this faux-pas. That much is clear from the panicked way he takes off his glasses and wipes them on his sleeve. In fact, Ryou rather guesses he had instructed people specifically not to ask about it, and immensely regrets his translator’s slip of the tongue.
But Bakhura, staring at him through the lens of those strange eyes, unblinking like a snake, does not strike Ryou as someone who makes mistakes.
Ryou smiles, as polite as his mother ever taught him. “I have,” he admits easily. “But it was really so long ago, I’m afraid I don’t remember much of my stay here.”
Bakhura sighs. “A shame, really. It’s a beautiful place.”
Ryou flies to Egypt for the funeral.
It’s unfair, especially since his mother and Amane, enshrined in coffins in the sprawling cemetery just outside of Domino, can’t accompany him. The thought of a funeral in their memory being conducted in their absence makes his skin crawl. But his father is unreachable, buried in mountains of work, and most of the would-be attendees are already with him, having flown out for the expedition themselves.
They held a funeral at his house, for the people in Domino. His aunts and uncles had taken the train in—one set from Nagoya, the other from Kodama—to watch him when they first heard the news and had organised everything on his behalf. Ryou doesn’t remember much of it, but after the fact, neighbours and schoolmates had dropped by with all kinds of things for weeks on end, piling up on his doorstep whenever he opened the door. But father hadn’t managed to come to that. Whenever he called during that time, which was hardly ever, since international is too expensive to make a habit of it, he received the same sheepish answer from Yoshimori: too busy.
It took three weeks in total since the accident for an official summons to be made. His father had actually called directly, very early in the morning, and told him in no uncertain terms that Ryou would be getting on a flight to Luxor the next day and they would be holding a funeral there, too, so he should also pack a nice suit. Ryou’s aunt from Nagoya kicked up a fuss about that, because apparently twelve is too young to go to Egypt alone. But as it turned out, his father had only bought one ticket, and the expense, apparently, of a last might flight was too heavy a burden on his extended family.
So Ryou has to fly to Egypt for the funeral alone. He doesn’t say anything to his father about it when he arrives, overwhelmed instantly by the barrage of new sights, and smells, and sounds. It’s a different world, this place: brighter and louder and more, so much more than the stooped over skyscrapers of Domino and the imposing KaibaCorp building, which are by far his city’s most exciting landmarks.
He’s so excited that he almost forgets to be sad. But when he gets into the car and buckles up his own seatbelt, peering up into his father’s grey, craggy face, he remembers why he’s there to begin with, and gets sad all over again.
Bakura-san? … Do you know when he’ll be back? … Well. If you wouldn’t mind, you need to come to the hospital, kiddo. There’s something we need to talk to you about. … No, we’ll send a car to come get you. Don’t worry about calling your mom.
It’s a frustrating process.
The funeral itself is unmemorable; it's conducted by a strange-looking priest, and lines of people come up to him and his father, all clad in identical black suits, to tell them how sorry they are. After the first few times, the familiar spiel begins to wear on Ryou’s nerves, until he’s fighting back the urge to scream at every new pitying face that comes up to him. It’s not their fault, he knows, that they can’t come up with anything original. Amane would have just laughed at them, and his mom would tell them to spice up their vocabulary and pull out the dictionary from the top shelf, high enough so only adults could reach it.
The thought makes him even angrier.
His father retreats at a certain point, claiming fatigue. Ryou—left only with the option of staying with Yoshimori and listening to a hundred more identical, infuriating speeches—slips out after him, trailing behind him down the long, long corridor that paves out the camp.
His father keeps muttering things to himself, all kinds of words and phrases in a language Ryou doesn’t understand. Ryou doesn’t even know if he realises he’s being followed, even though he’s doing it so overtly. He’s so immersed in himself, uncomprehending of anything else.
When they arrive at their destination, Ryou halts in the doorway. It’s not the place Ryou thinks it’s supposed to be. This isn’t an office like the one back at the museum, with a plush, comfy chair and a desk covered in loose papers and the cheap, chewed-up pens his father keeps. This is—
Symbols blur together in Ryou’s mind, a mess of picture and colour and sound.
He sits, hunched over his desk. Usually, it takes some work to get the puzzle pieces to click, but today it’s near impossible to decipher any of the writing. Of course, it would be now that they’re actually indispensable that his abilities would fail him. Irony has always been the central moral pulse of his life.
He’s on the verge of figuring out the next word when a knock at the door scatters the thought. With a sigh, he sets the paper down and rises to answer. Knowing his luck, it’s Mutou, coming to show him more photos of his grandson’s high school graduation.
“Hello,” Bakhura says, when he opens the door. He’s leaning against a wall, a bottle in each hand, languid as anything. “I fear we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. I had no intentions of rudeness, and, well—if we’re going to be working together, I don’t want there to be any bad blood.”
Every word Bakhura speaks in his presence carries an intrinsic wrong. Ryou agrees with the impulse; he doesn’t trust him for a second. Not logically, not emotionally, and certainly not physically.
But then again, he never has put much stock in trust.
“Come in,” he says, stepping back to allow the shorter man entrance. “You’ve won me over—I’ve never had Egyptian liquor before.”
—this is something else.
“Mine,” his father says, reverently. “It’s mine.”
Ryou blinks.
At the centre of the cavern, before a great, golden sarcophagus, his father kneels. So low down his hair brushes the floor, he lays a tender kiss on its lips. “Mine,” he mumbles, caressing its face. “I didn’t see it before. I was distracted. But I understand now. You were calling me, weren’t you? I heard you.”
“Papa,” he says, stepping inside the vast cavern. It’s hard; his legs struggle to move through the air, thick and hot as molasses. The candles—illuminating the vast columns, decorated with writing and symbols he doesn’t understand but his father surely does—sway, perturbed by the new presence in the room. Swallowing, he takes another step, despite the trembling of his legs against the cavern’s immense resistance. “Papa, it’s me. I followed you here. Aren’t you angry?”
“You called out to me through the darkness, and I heard you,” his father sighs, thumb sweeping over its cheek. Reaching into his pocket, he withdraws a folded piece of paper, laying it down next to the sarcophagus’ golden face. “It took me a long time to understand. You watched me struggle. But I know this is the correct way.”
Ryou takes another step. He opens his mouth—to call for him, for help, or just to scream—but the air pushes the sound down his throat, so violently he sputters for oxygen instead.
“I love you,” his father says softly. “I loved them, too, but I understand now that the sacrifice was necessary.”
If only he could touch his father, then it would be ok. Wrong, his body protests, as he plants one foot down. Wrong, wrong, wrong, when he puts down the other.
“I am yours.”
Wrong.
“And you are mine.”
Wrong.
“I swear, I will be your master, and you mine.”
Wrong.
He’s so close now. Ryou reaches out to touch, grasping—
“You have a strange complexion,” Bakhura says, eyes sweeping unabashedly over Ryou’s alcohol-flushed face. “It took me by surprise the first time we met. I expected—well. I don’t know what I expected.”
“You’re one to talk,” Ryou fires back. Senses dulled with drink, the sharp pain of wrong has eased into a throb, a gentle pulse of wrongwrongwrong churning in his stomach. When Bakura raises a questioning eyebrow, he says, “Your hair, I mean—it’s the same colour as mine.”
“Ah, well, that runs in my family,” says Bakhura, amused. “There are portraits of my ancestors, you know—not very flattering in their depiction of the great thief kings of the kingdom, as you might imagine, but each one had in common their white hair. Not everyone, mind. Only those with a talent for thievery.”
Ryou laughs, setting a hand on his shoulder. They were initially sat on opposite sides of the futon—the only warm surface in the room, save the single stiff desk chair—but something has swallowed up the distance, somehow. He can’t quite remember when that happened. “So, great thief king, what have you stolen?” he asks.
Bakhura chuckles, the full-bodied kind. “Many jewels,” he says, voice low and warm. Cautiously, like petting a stray cat, he presses his finger beneath Ryou’s eye. “Emeralds like these, for example. They’re easy to find in the tombs if you know what you’re looking for.”
“Well, it’s not really stealing if the original owner is dead,” Ryou murmurs, distracted. “More like borrowing.”
“That’s it, borrowing,” says Bakhura. His mouth is upturned in a self-satisfied smirk, so satisfied it makes Ryou’s blood boil. “I forgot the—”
Before he can finish the sentence, Ryou leans in and kisses him.
—air.
His feet are planted firmly on the ground, arms frozen in mid-air. Paralysed.
Ryou screams, but his mouth doesn’t move. Trapped within the cage of his own flesh, he stands statue still—limbs lead, fighting every nerve in his body screaming for movement—and watches his father reach down into the belly of the sarcophagus.
He pulls out an object. It’s hard to tell what it is: a ring of gold, but much too large for any wrist or finger. The eye at its centre oozes wrong, but then, this whole place is so wrong it’s hard to tell what’s the ring and what’s coming from the atmosphere. From this angle, it almost looks like a crown of thorns, with the limp spikes that surround the circle.
“It was worth it,” his father says. “They didn’t deserve to die, but for our deal—it was worth it. You’re mine.” Lovingly, he cradles the ring in his arms. It glimmers in the candlelight, still and unmoving. “My child,” he whispers.
Hollowed out inside, frozen in time and space, Ryou can only watch as his father sets the Ring on his head, eye staring sightlessly up at the ceiling.
And—
“Strange,” Bakhura sighs in his ear, hands burning deep on his waist, all the way down to his hipbones. “You’re so strange, has anyone ever told you that?”
Ryou rests his head in the crook of his neck, lips brushing the column of his throat. It hurts, most of all inside, the wrong; he’s drowning in it. “No,” he says, words lost in puffs of air. “No one ever—tells me—anything.”
He’s overwhelmed by sensation: Bakhura’s warm body on top of him and the mattress cool beneath. It feels good-bad-wrong-good—like having his guts spread open like a piece of meat on a butcher’s table. Like Bakhura is squeezing the organs with his bare hands, hard enough to make them burst.
“Maybe you just don’t listen,” Bakhura says. “Did you ever think of that? Signs are only signs if you read them.”
Ryou laughs. “Bullshit,” he says, pressing his bony heels down hard on Bakhura’s back to urge him on. “I’m an archaeologist. It’s my job to read—shit!—t—to read signs.”
“Oh, Ryou,” says Bakhura pityingly, brushing the hair out of his eyes. “You’re not an archaeologist.”
—he can’t look, but he hears.
Something falls and hits the ground. Something rolls. He’s looking, but he can’t see. Everything is white noise, dragging him down and down and down—
Go get it, impulse screams, the ring, go get the ring, go get it
His legs move. Without willing them to. He walks to the altar, eyes trained straight ahead because if he looks down then he’ll—
get the ring get the ring get the ring get it get it get it
He bends down, reaches into the belly of the sarcophagus, and takes it. He doesn’t know how it got there; it must have taken itself. He doesn’t look to the side, where a slumped over thing clings to the sarcophagus’ face, its flesh twitching even now.
put it on put it on put it on put it on
The piece of paper first. He grabs it, holds it tight to his chest with trembling fingers. They’re so slick it’s hard to keep his grip, but he manages to rise, ring in one hand and paper in the other.
put it on put it on put it ON PUT IT ON PUT IT
Closing his eyes, he holds the ring to his heart. The eye looks into his insides: he can feel its probing gaze searching, sifting through his every canal and fibre.
Okay,” Ryou says, and stands very still as it sinks into his skin, ninety nine layers of flesh layered on his flesh, soul to soul to soul screaming in silent agony.
And it feels like breathing, this alchemy his body embraces so gleefully, but that's only natural. Flesh recognises flesh, and this gold is alive.
“Why was it the same in the end?” Ryou asks, curling in on himself. The blankets bunched around him grate on his skin, too hard for the waterfall knobs of his spine. “You were different in the beginning. It was different.”
His mirror image peers over at him. A facsimile of a gesture for a facsimile of a person. “Do we look the same to you now?” he asks. “I don’t think so. Maybe you’re just a narcissist.”
“It was different,” he insists, clutching a pillow to his chest. “You were, you were a man. We were somewhere else. Not this place, not here. I was on a plane. I was doing something.”
The mirror shrugs. “The details are just details,” he says. “Does it matter where we were? Does it matter who? In the end it’s always just you and me.”
“And the rest of them,” says Ryou. “You and me and Kul Elna and mom and Amane.”
“If we’re counting them then we have to include your father this time,” the mirror agrees. “Heavy is the head that wears the crown; it's a pity his fell off."
Ryou rolls over to face him. Nose pressed to nose, he stares into the mirror’s hollow caverns. His eyes are tombs—sightless, golden eyes—not proper ones. His eyes are Ryou’s, stolen from his skull by those skeleton fingers. “Why was it the same?”
“Why would it be different?” the mirror questions. “This is a special place. It’s what we’re made of. You can’t escape that. Every room you go into, every reality, will be the same in the end. They’re n variations on a basic theme. The details are just details. Conservation of matter makes sure of that.”
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Ryou whispers into the mirror’s mouth.
The mirror strokes his cheek. “Then don’t,” he says. “You don’t have to exist, you know. It’s your will that keeps us here.”
Ryou kisses him. “I don’t want to be alone.”
“Then don’t,” the mirror says simply, drawing him into his arms. “Stay here, with me. We don’t have to go anywhere.”
It ends like this: a hundred and one souls encased in metal, pulse hot and steady beneath gold. A mirror, breathing in sync with itself. And a ring.