Work Text:
When Ryou woke up, he was still asleep. He could tell, because even though he was in his pajamas and in his bed and all signs pointed to him being conscious and therefore awake, he was in his soul room. It was actually rather interesting from a metaphysical and psychological standpoint, he mused, staring up at the painted clouds slowly crawling across the blue of the room's ceiling. Awake but not awake. He wondered what mode of sleep his body was in. Did he have to be in REM to be aware of his surroundings like this?
He slid out of bed and stuck his feet into the comfortably battered house slippers that had appeared just because he'd thought of them. Soul rooms — and dreams — were obliging like that, he supposed. It would be nice to just lie in his nice, comfortable bed and maybe even go back to sleep for real, the fact that he was not-awake like this meant that there was something happening in his head. Probably the part of his head that wasn't his head. He padded past the contents of his room, books and photos and shelves filled with row after row of neatly-painted Monster World figures. Each of the figures was modeled after someone he knew, carefully cataloged and kept safe behind glass. Sometimes he wished his subconscious would be a little more subtle in coming up with visual representations of his issues.
He opened the door to the hallway that shouldn't exist. As usual, everything outside his room was dark and cold. It vaguely reminded him of the pictures he'd seen of tombs from his father's digs. Ryou tried to avoid this place whenever he could, but at least it wasn't as bad as the other room. Which he was still going to enter, because he couldn't fully sleep and he was becoming increasingly confident that the blame lay with the other inhabitant of his head. He had the vague impression of blood and muffled screams, and didn't it just figure that they couldn't contain their violence to the waking world.
The other door was old and battered. There were nicks and gouges in the wood, suspicious stains and too many locks. But all Ryou had to do was push and it opened easily under his hands. He took a deep breath, wondered vaguely why his version of late night soul-searching had to be so literal, and stepped inside.
There was a dizzying moment of vertigo. The first thing he noticed when he regained his balance was that there was sand in his slippers. The second was that the screaming was a lot louder now, and accompanied by shouts and the crack of wood splintering under intense heat. He was standing on a rocky cliff above a village that was clearly in its final moments. It was the middle of the night, but between the moon and the fires slowly consuming the wooden supports of the mudbrick buildings below, everything was vividly, horribly illuminated. There were people everywhere — no, that was wrong, there was what was left of people everywhere, and men with swords and spears rounding up those that could still walk. The stench of blood and ashes rose up on the wind, and Ryou stumbled back from the edge of the cliff, trying to tell himself that he couldn't retch inside of his mind. His gag reflex was putting up a convincing argument to the contrary.
"It wasn't actually a village of thieves, you know."
Ryou found himself actually jumping in surprise at the unexpected voice, something he would have been a little embarrassed about in another situation. As it was, he whipped his head around and realized that there was someone else on the cliff with him. A broad-shouldered man was crouched a few feet away, sitting back on his heels as he watched the destruction below. He seemed so much a part of the scenery that Ryou suspected that he never would have noticed the man if he hadn't spoken up, despite the fact that he actually looked quite striking — between the strange combination of dark skin and pale hair and the wicked scar covering one side of his face, he should have stood out anywhere. In vague confusion, Ryou found himself resorting to politeness. "I'm sorry?"
The man gestured vaguely at the village with one hand, causing the firelight to glint off the many rings adorning his fingers. "That's just what they said to justify it. There were a lot of outcasts and foreigners, but mostly everyone started out as craftsmen. Sure, people stole when times were hard, but who doesn't?" There was something strange about his voice. It was too casual about the situation, almost like he was trying to sound unaffected. Maybe most people wouldn't have noticed. But Ryou had a lot of experience with acting. He wasn't sure what to say to the man's pronouncement, though, so he just nodded. Somehow he found himself watching the village again.
There was someone running through the ruined streets. A girl, her dark hair flying as she dashed and stumbled through the carnage. Her linen dress was torn, and she was clutching a bloody knife to her chest.
"She stabbed the first soldier who tried to rape her." There was an edge of pride in the man's voice now. "Sit down if you're going to stay. You look cold."
Ryou realized, to his surprise, that he was actually shivering. When had he lost control of his mental environment? His thin pajamas were no match for the desert at night. He sat, which at least got him out of the wind. "Who is she?" Ryou asked.
"Her name was Dedet." The man had moved closer. Somehow, he was sitting behind Ryou now. A pair of strong arms snaked around Ryou's waist and tugged at him until Ryou's back was resting against his bare chest, and then tucked his cloak around the both of them. It was dark red, the same color as the blood soaking the sand down below. There was something very strange about all of this. He was watching some ancient, senseless slaughter with a person who was both very familiar — don't admit who he is, Ryou told himself firmly, because somehow he knew that would ruin everything — and a complete stranger. But the man's body heat was soaking into him, and his embrace was comfortable, even as he rested his chin on Ryou's shoulder. In this position, it was obvious that the man was smaller than he’d initially assumed, somewhere in the vicinity of his own height. Ryou found himself disinclined to move. Everything was terrible, but it was a different kind of terrible than usual.
They were both watching the girl again. "She used to give me honey cakes because she thought I was better behaved than her own little brother. I hadn't remembered that in a while. I wonder why not?" Ryou could practically hear the man frown, his voice gone puzzled. Before he could consider responding, the girl had realized that there was nowhere else to run. A broad, calloused hand came up to gently cover Ryou's eyes, blocking his sight completely. "You don't want to see this next part." She's going to kill herself, the man didn't say, not exactly, but Ryou heard it anyway.
"If you know what happens, why are you still watching?" Ryou asked. He was beginning to feel drowsy within this shared dream. But his question was important. He could feel it.
The man kept his hand over Ryou's eyes. It was like a terrible metaphor, Ryou thought, his — their — subconscious yet again completely failing at subtlety. "I have to," the man said. "I have to watch each of them die. Over, and over, and over again. I have to memorize every detail."
"Why?" He thought he might have figured it out, might have realized the answer, but he needed to ask. To confirm it.
He could feel the man's breath, hot against his ear. "So that when I beat the Pharaoh, before I kill him, I can tell him every single one of their names. Every single one of their deaths."
That pronouncement should bother him more than it did. But Ryou was tired — he should be asleep, he was asleep — and the man was so very warm, and the screaming was beginning to die down.
When Ryou next woke up, he really woke up. He ignored the incessant beeping of his alarm clock and hugged his knees to his chest until the burning feeling behind his eyes went away. He absolutely didn't think about anyone else's arms around him.