[If Atem can take the insults and threats hurled at him by the people he'd played games with in Domino, he tells himself, he can take a fit of temper.
(It's not the same. Brushing off the derisive opinion of someone who doesn't matter to you isn't the same as someone asking you why you did something that hurt them. A few thousand years ago, in Egypt, they used to say that the worst things in life were lying in bed and being unable to sleep, waiting for someone who isn't coming, and trying to please but not pleasing. Obviously, having all of the water drained from you under the sway of a Fog God who doesn't see fit to put it back is worse than all of those things, and Atem can name a few others, but, you know. It's a mood.)
Atem doesn't want to pull his feelings apart right now. He doesn't want to feel hurt. He doesn't want to feel frustrated, not now that he's got his support back. He pushes it all away as unimportant, something he can take, something he's strong enough to carry. Ryou's telling him what he does want, possibly the closest thing he'll get to explicit instructions on what to do with his body if he dies, and Atem pays attention.]
I'll remember. I promise.
[He doesn't know if it will do any good. This game doesn't want them sparing each other pain. But Atem will be damned if he doesn't try -- if he doesn't do the best he can.
(Even if it's not going to be enough.)
But at least he can avoid making the same mistake twice.
He pulls his face back, not letting go with his arms or his wings but retreating just enough that his red eyes can look into Ryou's white ones. A fuzzy, curved bat-forehead pushes gently against Ryou's.]
You should come to bed. You're tired, aren't you? Give that water a chance to work. Get some sleep. You can think about everything else when you wake up.
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(It's not the same. Brushing off the derisive opinion of someone who doesn't matter to you isn't the same as someone asking you why you did something that hurt them. A few thousand years ago, in Egypt, they used to say that the worst things in life were lying in bed and being unable to sleep, waiting for someone who isn't coming, and trying to please but not pleasing. Obviously, having all of the water drained from you under the sway of a Fog God who doesn't see fit to put it back is worse than all of those things, and Atem can name a few others, but, you know. It's a mood.)
Atem doesn't want to pull his feelings apart right now. He doesn't want to feel hurt. He doesn't want to feel frustrated, not now that he's got his support back. He pushes it all away as unimportant, something he can take, something he's strong enough to carry. Ryou's telling him what he does want, possibly the closest thing he'll get to explicit instructions on what to do with his body if he dies, and Atem pays attention.]
I'll remember. I promise.
[He doesn't know if it will do any good. This game doesn't want them sparing each other pain. But Atem will be damned if he doesn't try -- if he doesn't do the best he can.
(Even if it's not going to be enough.)
But at least he can avoid making the same mistake twice.
He pulls his face back, not letting go with his arms or his wings but retreating just enough that his red eyes can look into Ryou's white ones. A fuzzy, curved bat-forehead pushes gently against Ryou's.]
You should come to bed. You're tired, aren't you? Give that water a chance to work. Get some sleep. You can think about everything else when you wake up.