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Five Ways to Deal	By : sunfalling Category: Yu-Gi-Oh > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 2098 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own YuGiOh!, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Five Ways to Deal
- 1
Title: Five Ways to Deal

Author: Sunfalling

Rating: NC17

Warnings: dark AU, language, rough sex

Disclaimer: I definitely don't own Yu-Gi-Oh! or the characters.

1. Attend a Funeral

In truth, it isn�t a funeral, just a memorial service in an open field near the
high school. Bakura doubts this crowd could handle an actual funeral complete
with stiff corpses and dark suits. The entire middle school has turned out for
the occasion, along with half the high school and assorted relatives, despite
the threatening weather. Some are weeping openly, the trappings of their pitiful
grief on display for all to see. Others just stand around, arms hugged close to
their bodies, hands buried in pockets, wishing they had brought coats and
wondering how much longer they have to take part in this uncomfortable ritual.

Four sixth graders died along with a high school assistant when their bus
crashed three days ago. They had been on their way to compete in some kind of
weekend inter-school science fair. Bad weather and poor road conditions were
blamed.

Bakura stands a little away from the crowd smoking a cigarette and watching two
children make faces at each other behind the backs of their solemn parents. If
they knew the dead children, they certainly don�t seem to care. Bakura laughs,
a strange, harsh noise cutting through the soft murmur of voices. A few turn to
stare at him, a thin boy in the smooth, navy-blue high school uniform with wild
white hair and large eyes. He gives them a mocking grin and pulls the cigarette
to his cold lips again; the long breath of smoke is the only warmth he feels.
His fingers are numb. He digs a thumbnail into the soft flesh of his palm, but
feels nothing.

Another icy gust of wind blows his hair around his face like the fingers of a
wispy cloud. Across the field, he sees the length of a dark coat whip in the breeze.
Bakura sneers slowly as his gaze fastens on the tall, lean figure of Seto Kaiba
standing silently at the edge of the crowd with blank face of a poker star. He
turns away from Bakura�s silent stare and looks toward the front, where some
sort of flower-remembering shit ceremony has started. All Bakura can see is the
firm line of his shoulders under the dark coat and back of his head, covered
with messy chestnut brown hair.

A single drop of cold liquid hits the back of Bakura�s hand and then another plops
against his skull. Little children shriek and parents groan as the heavy clouds
finally begin to shed rain. Bakura laughs again at the confusion in the crowd.
He watches Kaiba�s head turn quickly and meets the stare of hard blue eyes. The
rain falls faster now, as it should at a proper funeral, darkening Kaiba�s hair
and rolling down his face like tears. One drop slides down the bridge of his
nose and Bakura can�t help but smile maliciously. Kaiba isn�t crying at all.

Aren�t you going to grieve for your poor dead brother, you pathetic asshole?

Bakura�s lips draw back to show Kaiba laughing white teeth, bright in a smooth,
vicious face. You are nothing. He offers a final dramatic salute with a
soggy cigarette as Kaiba turns and walks away.

2. See a Shrink

The school administration hires an actual grief counselor and informs students
that those with close personal ties to the victims of the recent tragedy can
attend sessions completely free of charge. Bakura rolls his eyes as an
administrator announces it in class and pretends to be sleeping when she
fastens a piteous gaze on him. He doesn�t leave class with many of the weeping
students: friends of the recently deceased high school student who had so
foolishly decided to volunteer time on the middle school trip.

Instead, Bakura slouches in his chair and stares sullenly at the tiny words
crawling across the open page of his textbook. Bakura isn�t stupid; he just
never cared much about school before�at least not the academic side. The things
he likes about high school are the power structure, the pyramids and popularity
and flimsy levels of authority. He loves how malleable adolescents are, how
eager they are for recognition and acceptance. He loves how easy they are to
manipulate, to push to the edge. Hanging around with Malik and his gang gave
Bakura the thrill of absolute power in the delicate structure of the high
school. But then Malik got busted for dealing shit and then, of course, Ryou
guilted Bakura back into the classroom.

�We�re going to graduate together,� he tells Bakura firmly. �If you
do this, I swear I�ll be happy forever.�

�Who says I want you to be happy?� Bakura grumbles, but they both know he has
no ground anymore. In truth, he is passing most of his classes already and with
a little work in English and Physics, he�ll graduate easily. It seems a simple,
painless thing to give Ryou, compared to all the painful gifts he�s dropped on
his brother before.

Although Ryou and Bakura were born as twins, it is easier to imagine their
creation involved the work of a Dr. Jekyll-like mad scientist trying to
separate the two halves of human nature. While Bakura spent his childhood
stealing camera phones and slashing tires, Ryou was baking cookies for the old
lady down the street and nursing stray cats back to health. Bakura stopped
counting the times he heard people say, �Those boys look the same but they�re
complete opposites!�

Bakura tells himself that although he hurt Ryou countless times, he never let
anyone else hurt his twin if he could help it. Anyway, Ryou usually didn�t need
his help; his pleasant nature made�makes him so ridiculously popular with
everyone.

Idly, Bakura grinds a pencil into the surface of his desk, watching the
graphite crumble into a dark powder. For the first time in a year, he saw Seto
Kaiba in class, sitting in the back with the same old condescending scowl.
Kaiba attended special classes at a local college since junior year but rumor
has it that his grades dropped rapidly, forcing him to return to the sad little
high school he deserted.

Gifted child, my ass, Bakura thinks spitefully.

�That poor boy,� Ryou says sadly. �Mokuba was the world to him.�

Bakura is about to deliver a snide reply when he sees the vice principal
himself enter the classroom and approach his desk purposefully.

�I�m here to take you to the counseling session,� he says, broad forehead
wrinkling with concern. �It seems you didn�t hear the noon announcement.�

Bakura tries not to laugh, but he lets the man see that he is amused. �I don�t
require counseling, thank you.�

�Just go,� Ryou tells him. �Get it over with. You can make fun of
them later.�

Bakura considers the idea of mocking the caring old counselor and her
grief-stricken followers. He really can�t refuse Ryou anything these days. So
when the man insists, he shrugs and stands.

Unfortunately, the counselor is nothing like he expected. Pegasus J. Crawford
is a tall, elegant-looking man with long, white-blonde hair dressed in a
wine-red suit. He smiles invitingly when Bakura enters. There are four girls
and two boys in the room, including Seto Kaiba who sits in the back and stares
out the window silently with his arms crossed�picturesquely unapproachable in
his brooding manner.

Bakura smiles slowly back at Pegasus. He moves to sit next to a scrawny boy
with hair spiked hair colored yellow, black, and red. If it weren�t for the
ridiculous hair he wouldn�t even remember little Yuugi Mouto, the bully-magnet
of the school�although, in the back of his mind, he recalls Ryou inviting the
pipsqueak over a few times. The only other person Bakura recognizes is that
plain-looking girl who seems to be Mouto�s only other friend: Masaki, Mazaki,
or something like that. She holds Mouto�s grubby little hand patiently as he
uses the other to wipe at reddened eyes.

The vice principal speaks softly to the counselor before leaving the room.
Pegasus straightens and smiles directly at Bakura in a way that makes him oddly
uncomfortable.

�Good to have you here, Bakura-kun,� he says. You naughty boy! his eyes
say. �We were just discussing how we feel about the people who have passed
away. Our first reaction to loss is often stringent denial. I feel that most of
you have gotten past that point, so now we�re talking about ways to deal with
the things we�re feeling in the aftermath of this acceptance. Do you have any
suggestions?�

Bakura makes a show of thinking hard. �Sex?� he offers finally. One girl gasps.
Another muffles a giggle. Mouto looks at him in disbelief and then stares at
the ground, embarrassed. Kaiba doesn�t react at all and Bakura thinks he will
have to try harder to rile the icy bastard.

Pegasus nods thoughtfully. �Yes, in some situations sexual activity can be
healing when it is with someone you care about.�

�I�m building a website to remember my cousin,� one girl says, trying to change
the subject.

�Is it a porn site?� Bakura counters.

�No!� She looks at him in shocked disgust.

�Bakura, I think Yamazuki-chan�s suggestion is relevant. There�s no need to
ridicule it,� Pegasus says gently.

Bakura�s hand shoots up. �Pegasus-san, I have another idea!�

�Yes?� Pegasus asks indulgently.

�Drugs. Dope will help me deal.�

Unruffled, Pegasus nods. His perfectly manicured nails brush slide against the
leather arms of the chair. �That may be true. I prescribe drugs to some
patients who need them to cope with depression.�

�Nothing like some pot in the morning to keep your mood up,� Bakura says.

Pegasus smiles indulgently. �Unfortunately, marijuana and other drugs can leave
you feeling even more depressed after you come down off your high. I wouldn�t
recommend drug use without careful examination first, Bakura-kun.�

�But you just told me that drugs will help me deal,� Bakura argues.

�No�It depends on the circumstance��

�Wait a minute,� Bakura interrupts, �Is all this advice is circumstantial? If I
build a memorial website it�s fine, but not if it�s a porn memorial? If
I do drugs it�s fine, but not good drugs?� He sighs and throws his hands into
the air. �I suppose healing sex is fine, but what happens if I fuck Kaiba and
end up with hepatitis? I�m going to sue you, Pegasus-san, you can bet on that.�

Masaki-Mazaki makes a startled noise, Mouto burrows deeper in his seat, and the
girl across the room snickers uncontrollably. Bakura can only smirk darkly. He
relishes the feel Kaiba�s heated glare burning a hole in his back.

�You little shit-eater,� Kaiba hisses. But he doesn�t do anything, just turns
back to scowl out the window again, as if the pale-haired boy isn�t even worth
getting angry over and Bakura feels something hot and painful flare to life in
his gut. He bites his tongue with the agony, a simple dislike for the aloof,
haughty Kaiba bursting into full hatred. He runs his tongue over his teeth and
continues to smile tightly.

�Oh dear, what have you gotten into now?� Ryou teases.

3. Flirt With Disaster

After looking over school records, Pegasus assigns Bakura to study�study!�with
Seto Kaiba three days a week.

�Holy fucking hell,� Bakura says.

�He�s having some trouble with motivation in his own work,� Pegasus explains,
�but he�s very bright and I think he could help you out a lot. Plus you two are
both dealing with a similar loss and trying to settle your differences. It
could be very healing.�

Gradually, Bakura�s frown turns into a leer. �Yeah, I�ll heal him,� he agrees.

�Good for you.� Ryou says, trying not to laugh.

However, Kaiba certainly shows no interest in dealing, coping, or healing of
any kind. At their first cozy study session he slams a pile of textbooks on the
desk in the empty room and gives Bakura a look cold enough to freeze a bonfire.

�Let�s get this over with,� he says. �I have work to do.�

�Oh, the mighty Kaiba actually works for a living?� Bakura sneers. Rumors
floated around school that the Kaiba brothers were actually millionaires living
with their rich step father. But he doubts this now, seeing the frayed ends of
Kaiba�s sleeves as he opens a textbook and flips pages furiously. Kaiba�s
fingers are knobby and skeletal; his face has the sunken, hollow beauty of a
dying child. It is only now, seeing him without a coat or school jacket that
Bakura can truly comprehend how terribly thin Kaiba has become, watching the
sharp points of his elbows, the protrusion of his cheekbones.

�I have a program to finish,� Kaiba says curtly. �Read this chapter and
complete the exercises.�

�Hai, sensei,� Bakura replies mockingly.

But Kaiba neglects to respond, opening his laptop on the desk opposite from
Bakura. The machine whirrs softly as it loads data and Kaiba�s eyes lock the
screen, refusing to acknowledge anything Bakura does.

Before, Kaiba seemed like a fortress, heavily guarded, shut off from all
contact with great hostility. Old Kaiba wielded knife-sharp scorn and deep
revulsion toward the lowly minions outside his fortress. But this new Kaiba has
little contempt left, only lingering indifference for the outside world. Like
an empty house, a blank wall, Bakura can look into his eyes and see nothing but
empty rooms, deserted by all inhabitants.

Getting any kind of reaction from this stolid youth is a difficult task, but
this becomes a game for Bakura, a fierce new challenge, the only thing to look
forward to in the monotonous stretch of days.

This first time, he stands behind the figure of Kaiba seated at the desk,
fingers flying over the keys of the laptop, typing long lines of code. The
touch is a simple brush of fingers across the back of the other boy�s smooth
neck, stirring small, soft hairs and the rise of a vertebra under warm skin.
Kaiba�s reflexes jerk into action. He inhales loudly and wrenches to the side,
his arm swinging swiftly to swipe at the offending hand.

There is a rough mixture of fear and anticipation throbbing in Bakura�s mind, a
sweet taste in his mouth as he stares into the blue accusation of Kaiba�s eyes.
When Kaiba asks what the hell is wrong with him, he laughs, little jagged
sounds falling from his throat.

�There was a spider,� he says smoothly, teeth shining to match his eyes. �Or
maybe it was a fly. You should thank me.�

�Keep you fucking hands to yourself,� Kaiba orders, looking away listlessly. He
is already losing a grip on whatever anger flared up in that brief moment. This
departure from emotions frustrates Bakura to no end, but it is also a deep
source of fascination, like poking at a dying man to see how long he will
respond to pain.

The next day, there are bruises on Kaiba�s lovely throat: dark bands of color
under his jaw, a purplish-yellow thumb print below his ear.

�Rough sex last night?� Bakura asks flippantly, reaching to touch the edge of a
bruise. Kaiba�s eyes flash briefly up to meet his, wide, startled, and flecked
with gold from the light. The chestnut head jerks away from his touch and turns
back to the book open on the desk.

�Focus on the lesson, moron,� he growls. �Keep your fucking assumptions to
yourself.�

Bakura notes that he says nothing about hands this time.

They are actually able to study for some time, trading the occasional insult.
Bakura doesn�t like focusing on the silly words parading down the pages, but he
has to admit that Kaiba makes it easier, directing his attention to what is
most important and drilling him on the essentials. Sometimes Kaiba uses his
laptop to pull up a graphic in order to illustrate a point, stooping over the
glowing screen with stern intent. Bakura grows accustomed to the sound of his
voice, the low, rough rhythm of his words in the empty room.

It�s hard not to notice the weariness weighing down Kaiba�s shoulders and the
vague, subtle pain in the lines of his face and the edges of his cloudy blue
eyes. All the fierce resilience is fading, like the remains of a smoking fire
after the onslaught of a rainstorm. But he stares at the pages of the textbooks
and the screen with calm intent. The shaggy red-brown hair falls over his ears
and the sides of his face as he leans, obscuring his eyes from Bakura�s view.
One hand rests on the edge of the desk and Bakura notices the watch strapped to
the bony wrist, a small, garish instrument with the image of a brightly-colored
robot from some children�s anime program. The plastic face of the watch is
cracked from a hard impact.

�Are you paying attention, baka?� Kaiba asks impatiently.

�Of course, my dear sensei,� Bakura replies, but the sting is suddenly gone
from his insolence.

When Bakura works on a set of problems by himself, Kaiba focuses on his laptop
and the game he is programming with great concentration. Today he came in
limping slightly and there are harsh red swaths on his knuckles where the skin
was scraped away. He hasn�t even bothered to bandage them.

Outside the window, dark clouds hover perpetually, driven by the storm system
rolling down the Japanese coast. Bakura stares out, listening to the rattle of
the panes in the wind. He wonders, with some amount of jealously who it is that
Kaiba actually allows to hurt him. These are not the sort of wounds to be
self-inflicted and everyone in school knows better than to mess with Seto
Kaiba. They say that he broke the leg of a kid in Jr. High and everyone learned
better than to scuffle with the antisocial boy after he dislocated Katsuya
Jounouchi�s shoulder as a first year. Bakura is no push-over himself but he�s
seen Kaiba throw victims in judo class like a man tossing a sack of rice and he
knows better than to test his strength against the taller boy.

Instead, he makes stealthy attacks: a hand against Kaiba�s hip, the brush of
his head against the other boy�s shoulder. At first Kaiba reacts harshly,
pushing him away and snarling threats, but this is only a feeble resistance,
easily forgotten. Finally, he attempts to ignore Bakura�s furtive gropes,
realizing perhaps that reacting only fuels the white-haired boy�s glee.

Bakura likes this game. He touches the backs of Kaiba�s arms through his
uniform, encircles the frail, pulsing width of a wrist. His fingers trace a
taunt tendon on the bruised neck as Kaiba turns his head, skim over the soft
ridge of an ear. He relishes the feel of warm, living skin, the subtle scent of
thick, earth-brown hair, the tightly-stretched tension straining beneath
Kaiba�s flesh in silent rebellion.

�You like him,� Ryou declares in a sing-song voice.

Bakura sits on the cement ledge on the roof of the school smoking a cigarette
and watching the wide spread of empty green field under smoke-gray skies. He
was enjoying a soda, admiring the long legs of the school girls walking away
from class, holding down their skirts against the gusts of wind. For a moment,
the image of Kaiba�s long trench coat whipping in the air like a mourning veil
came into his mind. Then Ryou had to say something.

�What the fuck?� Bakura replies, nearly falling off the edge.

�You love Seto Kaiba,� Ryou continues to sing. �You want to marry him
and have his babies.�

Bakura is dumb with shock for a moment. �Nani�? When did you get to be such a
little bastard?� he asks with stark amazement.

�It�s terrible I know,� Ryou admits, chuckling, �but somehow I don�t
really care. I think, because we�re sharing this body, I�m starting to become
more like you and you�re more like me.�

�Like hell,� Bakura says vehemently. But he�s afraid. Like Kaiba, his anger is
slipping away, along with a lifelong fascination for the obscene. For the first
time he is actually studying to pass classes�and doing it with an actual human
being. Of course there is an ulterior motive here. In truth, his obsession with
control and destruction has simply transferred to an obsession with the
controlled destruction of Seto Kaiba.

As Kaiba checks his homework that afternoon, he stares at the name at the top
of the page.

�Yami? What kind of name is Dark Bakura?� he scoffs. �Did you actually
think that was cute or something?�

Standing behind him, Bakura remembers when he started calling himself Yami. He
liked the way it contrasted the sharp differences between himself and his twin.
But Ryou refused to go by �Hikari� and said the whole thing was silly. �You�re
not a bad person,� he told Bakura sternly.

Bakura laughs, as he did then. �You don�t think I�m cute, sensei?�

Kaiba gives him a long-suffering eye roll of disgust before turning back to the
paper. His eyes track steadily down the length of the sheet, rapidly reading
the kanji. Bakura moves closer, bending so that he can see the small, dark
hairs at the base of Kaiba�s neck. He covers them with one hand and watches the
shoulders tighten visibly beneath the uniform. Kaiba�s breathing is controlled
and his eyes continue to crawl the lines of writing on the paper. A light sheen
of sweat forms under Bakura�s palm and he moves it over the warm, soft surface
of the neck, brushing the longer cinnamon hair of the scalp.

�You really fucked this one up,� Kaiba says, circling characters with his pen.

Bakura watches the firm motion of his hand, the long, thin fingers with short,
clean nails. There are deep grooves in the surface of his thumbnail, like
little troughs, and a long pink scar stretches down the length of his index
finger.

Kaiba sighs, a short breath of air in the empty room. Bakura�s left hand moves
down over his shoulder to grip the firm flesh of the upper arm. At the same
time, his right hand moves lower to slip under the hem of the white shirt,
lifting the coarse fabric. The skin of Kaiba�s back is even warmer than his
neck, a feverish heat that seems to crawl into Bakura�s body. The pale skin
stretches tight over the bony surface of Kaiba�s back and the other boy�s
fingers map the gentle curve ribs spreading from a long, lovely spine jutting
visibly through its thin covering. This feeling is smooth and cool in Bakura�s
mind: the beauty of this skinny, dying seventeen year-old.

His mouth presses softly against Kaiba�s shoulder as his fingers dips beneath
the waistband of the trousers, following the path of the spine to its root.
Kaiba reacts with a vengeance. Reflexes dulled by the faint buzzing in his
body, Bakura is unable to dodge the arc of a swift fist that knocks him to the
ground. He crouches on the floor, head ringing, and reaches gingerly to
throbbing pain on the side of his jaw.

Kaiba has already gone back to correcting the paper.

Hands on the cold floor, Bakura watches the movement of his elbow as he writes
something on the sheet, the little watch on his wrist reflecting the light from
the lamp on the desk.

�My first name is actually Ryou,� he says to Kaiba�s back. He�s dizzy and the
words are slurred by the painful movement of his jaw.

�Your brother�s name was Ryou,� Kaiba replies without turning. �Everyone knows
that.� And then, coldly, �He�s dead if you haven�t noticed.�

The laughter starts in Bakura�s stomach and works its way up through his
throat, wracking his body. He can�t stop it even though it feels like the
entire side of his face is swelling with pain. Kaiba doesn�t know, of course.
No one knows that even though Ryou�s body may be dead and burned to ashes, his
spirit lives on, sharing the vessel of his brother.

�You really are insane,� Kaiba mutters incredulously, turning his head at last.
�I always suspected it.�

Catching his breath, Bakura smiles malevolently. �I�m not the one wearing my
dear little brother�s accessories.� He smirks at the defensive way Kaiba jerks
his arm to himself. �Stealing from the dead, I think they call it.�

Kaiba�s out of his chair in a second, face drawn with rage. Bakura feels his
bravado drain away in the face of this fury and he reaches into his pocket for
the cool metal of a little pen knife. But Kaiba stops a few feet away from the
other boy�s crouched form and just looks at him, skin taunt and pale, eyes
wide. His lips part as though to speak and then close into a hard line. Walking
past Bakura, he opens the door.

�Run away, Kaiba, run away!� Bakura calls, still grinning. He laughs at the
slammed door, a futile, triumphant gesture.

Alone in the room, he stands, still rubbing a sore jaw. Outside the window, the
sky roils with rain-swelled clouds. All week, the news stations have reported
on the advancement of the typhoon on the coast coming closer and closer.

The crumpled homework sheet lies on the desk next to Kaiba�s laptop and Bakura
moves to pick it up and stare at the strong, confident lines of Kaiba�s
corrections. Next, he goes to the laptop, moving the mouse to reveal the screen
full of programming codes.

�Mokuba told me about this game,� Ryou says sadly. �It was going to
be his birthday present. He was really excited.�

�And dear dedicated Kaiba is determined to finish it,� Bakura says, snickering.
�What�s he going to do when it�s done? Burn it up the disc and mingle the ashes
with Mokuba�s? Or maybe he thinks the little monkey will come back from the
dead when his beloved game is ready for him.�

�Grief is a powerful thing,� Ryou replies quietly.

�Maybe he�ll fulfill his responsibility and then kill himself,� Bakura murmurs.
But the scenario doesn�t sound nearly as amusing when he speaks it aloud and
the pain in his face makes him nauseous.

What comes after graduation? He wonders vaguely, but Ryou doesn�t seem
to hear.

4. Run away

In the restroom, Bakura peers into a smudged mirror, studying the features of
the boy looking back at him. This boy has spiky hair white as snow that falls
down the back of his neck and fierce golden-brown eyes. His face is small and
hard, all sharp angles and cunning, no traces of gentleness. No matter how he
twists it, tightening his mouth, relaxing his piercing eyes, he cannot make it
look like Ryou�s: warm, forgiving and full of patience.

�Why the fuck did you have to volunteer for that stupid field trip?� he asks
between clenched teeth.

Ryou sighs but says nothing.

Bakura is furious. The skin on the left side of his face is bright red and
slightly swollen, but not enough to account for this gut-wrenching sickness in
his flesh.

�You�re fucking dead, you little shit,� he hisses.

�I�m living inside of you,� Ryou insists urgently. �I�m still here.�

�Shut up!� Bakura hears his voice echo off the tiles, reverberating with
denial. �What comes after graduation? We share an apartment, flip burgers? I
hold conversations with myself all day, scream at myself in the toilet�what
more evidence do I need?�

�You really are insane,� Kaiba said.

Bakura digs his fingers into his eyes, bruising the lids, biting his tongue
with the pain. Ryou is suddenly suspiciously silent. The first stage of grief
is denial; everyone knows that. Faggy Pegasus could have told him that. There�s
probably some fancy psychiatrist name for a disorder where you pretend a dead
person is talking to you.

Bakura tastes blood in his mouth and removes his fingers from his eyes. The
room is a painful, swirling blur and the face in the mirror grins back at him
like a demented demon, empty of all life like a deserted house. Silence crushes
down on his chest and he vomits in the sink, tears leaking from bruised and
burning eyes.

Ryou says nothing.

As typhoon winds rise, the announcement comes out around 3 o�clock that school
is dismissed for the day. The wind shakes the windows, spraying sheets of rain
over the panes in shimmering curtains. Students begin the exodus to their
homes, heads bent against the strong gusts, coats wrapped tightly.

Bakura watches them from the room on the third floor, twisting the pen knife in
his fingers. The building empties itself rapidly, spilling its life onto the
rain-slicked streets. Only Bakura remains, the lone soul in its hollow shell.
On the surface of the desk where Kaiba usually sits with his laptop, Bakura
carves Ryou Was Here. The words are faint and insubstantial: thin,
spidery lines on the vast smooth surface. He closes the knife and drops it into
his pocket.

On the roof, the rain hits his face like little bullets, hard and painful. The
whip tears roughly at his jacket, pushing him back. Bakura takes it off and
drops it over the edge of the roof, watching it whirl and fly against the side
of the building like some dark, deranged bird, descending to the ground at
last. He puts a foot on the iron railing that lines the edge of the roof and
hoists his body up. The top rail is flat and wide enough for him to balance on,
he thinks.

�Bakura,� he hears someone call. It�s not Ryou.

He turns to sit on the rail, facing away from the edge. Kaiba stands in the
doorway of the entrance to the stairs, hair black with moisture, face shining
with rain.

�You need to get out of the building,� he shouts through the wind. His forehead
is tight with lines of anger. �Everyone is gone.�

Bakura laughs. �Everyone!� he calls back. �Everyone is gone!�� Ryou hasn�t
answered him all day, no matter how he curses or pleads or threatens. �There�s
no one left,� he tells Kaiba.

The wind roars in his ears. He knows how insane he must look now: a strange,
thin boy crouched on the railing in the rain like some desperate animal. His
white hair is plastered against his skull and neck; his shirt is stuck to his
shivering body. But still he smiles, teeth shaking, eyes maniacally bright.

Kaiba walks across the roof toward him without hurry. His long trenchcoat
covers his uniform and the wind rips at it like a mad thing. He stops in front
of Bakura, jaw clenched, gaze burning with a fierce intensity.

�Do you really think I�m going to stop you?� he asks, voice burning with
acidity. �I couldn�t care less if you jump off the roof of your school like some
melodramatic girl. You�ll just become another pathetic, weak fool, another sad
teenage suicide statistic, blown away and broken down because someone else
died.� His face twists with anger. �It hurts, idiot. Get over it.�

Liquid fire rushes up in Bakura�s chest, chasing away the numbing fog of
indecision. �Fuck you, Kaiba,� he snarls, clenching the rail hard enough to
feel the hard edges bite back into his palms. Rain stings in his eyes.

�Yeah, fuck me, loser,� Kaiba returns vehemently, �But you have to kill
yourself first.�

Bakura puts one heel up on the top rail, easing his way up. His eyes lock with
Kaiba�s staring into turbulent blue. He feels defiant and desperate and
ultimately damned. His other shoe slides onto the flat top rail and his body balances,
crouched there, clutching the rail with both hands. Kaiba doesn�t blink. His
skin is white as ice, the only color in his face is the purplish-pink of his
cold, tight lips and the flaring depths of his eyes. I want you, Bakura
thinks fervently, I want to tear you apart.

He licks the sweet rain from his lips. If I stand now, the wind will surely
knock me over, he thinks. If I stand now, I�ll fall for certain. He
strains his muscles, pushing back against the hard surface of the rail. He
stands.

Malik played a game with Bakura when they were together: a game about sex and
death. As they kissed, he ran a blade down the side of Bakura�s throat, slowly
and seductively. If Bakura became too excited or too forward, the blade would
cut his skin, but the white-haired boy calculated his advantage with care and
he never forgot about the hairline barrier between pleasure and punishment.

When he first met Malik, the boy was a second year transfer of middle-eastern
descent with bronzed skin, luminous eyes, long hair bleached yellow as wheat.
He saw the perversity in Bakura�s hungry gaze and matched it with a twisted
lust of his own. Bakura never tired of watching the slide of muscle under the
intricate tattoos that stretched down his back and he met Malik�s undisguised
leer with a cool indifference, keenly aware of the power in seduction.

For Bakura, the thrill came from taking. He stole the purses of girls in class,
the watch of the principal, the motorcycle of the gym teacher. But the arrival
of Malik taught him the delight of controlling people, the ability to turn
people against each other and against themselves. Beneath the surface of the
school, Malik became the authority that mocked authority, the ruling power of
the school gangs and illicit all dealings.

In Bakura�s mind, the young leader was always the unknown factor, the strength
of a genius wrapped in the treachery of a snake. But the magnetism of Malik was
undeniable and Bakura found himself drawn in, even as he skirted the edges of a
bloody obsession.

Marik often sucked and licked the blade of his knife when he was bored, humming
softly in the back of his throat. It was a pretty weapon with a silvery sheen
and pearlesent handle studded with small gems. Bakura never allowed Malik to
cut him with it, but he said nothing when the golden boy passed it gently over
his naked flesh or buried it in his white hair spread over the pillow as they
fucked. Sometimes Malik cut his own tongue by accident or design and he kissed
Bakura to allow the other boy the rich taste of blood. This foolish, careless
dance on a delicate line between sex and danger always turned them both on
beyond imagining.

It was only until the sweaty, humid night when Bakura awoke naked, the knife at
his throat and terror thundering in his chest, that the game meant nothing.
Malik crouched over his body, holding the knife in shaking hands, his eyes
glassy and unfocused from whatever cocktail of drugs he had injected.

Bakura�s mind did not go to the glittering weapon or the hot blood sliding down
his skin from a shallow cut. It did not go to the crazed lust in Malik�s face
or the weight on his body. He thought instead of his quiet, vulnerable other
half, the opposite brother with open brown eyes. Who will protect Ryou if I
die from this psycho�s fucking hallucinations? he thought. Who will
watch over that kid if I�m dead?

Only then did Bakura decide that he didn�t really want death after all.

The wind is strong. The force of the typhoon rushes at him like a freight train
and he falls, unable to cry. His knee hits the iron hard as he tumbles to the
side, away from the edge and onto the tall, yielding form of Seto Kaiba. In the
strength of the wind, they collapse in a tangle of limbs on the cold, hard tile
of the roof. Kaiba makes an angry, painful noise between his teeth. Lying on
top of him, Bakura is surprised at the sudden sensation of warmth, the shock of
beating life beneath pale skin.

�You fell the wrong way, idiot,� Kaiba growls, pushing him up.

Bakura thinks to say something about the direction of the wind gust, but Kaiba
is already straightening, pulling his stumbling, numbed body toward the covered
stairway. The flat, square tiles are slick under his feet and wet leaves fly at
them, plastering to the back of Bakura�s body. His knee aches and stings; he
imagines Kaiba feels worse.

Inside the building, Kaiba wrestles the door shut against the wind and shrugs
off his long coat, dropping it on Bakura�s drenched form. He meets the other�s
bemused expression with a signature cold glare.

�I didn�t come all the way back and drag your psychotic ass out of the rain to
have you die of hypothermia.�

Wearily, he slouches against the wall beside the stairs, long legs spread out
on the dirty floor. Bakura crouches beside him, pulling the Kaiba-smelling coat
close. The inner lining is still comfortably dry and warm. Somewhere inside
himself, he touches the raw void of Ryou�s silence and draws back quickly,
confused and afraid.

Kaiba leans over him, reaching into one of the pockets of his coat. His body
radiates an elusive heat and stubborn survival. From the coat�s right pocket,
Kaiba takes a packet of cigarettes and a lighter.

Outside, the wind howls and pounds at the walls. In the dark silence of the
unlit stairwell, the tiny flame of the lighter shines a surprisingly bright
flame. Bakura is mesmerized by the red glow of the lit cigarette in Kaiba�s
lips, the heat, the light, the thickness of his dark eyelashes and soaked hair.
The front of his shirt that wasn�t covered by the coat is soaked through,
revealing hints of pale pink skin where it sticks to his chest.

Kaiba meets his stare unflinchingly, pupils huge in the darkness.

�Give me a drag,� Bakura whispers, reaching for the cigarette.

Kaiba frowns and jerks it away from his grasp, but Bakura is already on his
knees, crawling up into the other boy to get it. There�s a brief struggle, all
sharp elbows and nimble fingers, where Kaiba curses loudly and the cigarette
hits the floor, extinguishing itself. Bakura catches Kaiba�s hand and brings it
to his mouth, sucking on the burnt finger.

�You sick little�� Kaiba jerks away from him again and Bakura has to pin the
taller boy against the wall with the weight of his body and both arms in order
to kiss him properly on the mouth. Kaiba�s warmth overwhelms him. He wants to
sink into this delicious heat and live here forever. But Kaiba turns his head,
gasping and Bakura�s mouth trails over his cheek and jawbone.

�Don�t�� he starts to say. Bakura digs a hand into his thick wet hair and pulls
his head back, kissing the open mouth with ruthless force. Finally, Kaiba stops
fighting, shocked by the sudden pain�or perhaps simply choosing indifference
over reaction.

Unhindered, Bakura explores his mouth with great delight, tongue sliding
against soft lips and slick teeth. One hand tangles in sleek, damp hair while
the other presses against Kaiba�s chest, measuring his heartbeat. He feels
Kaiba�s quick, rough breaths in his own throat, the greedy thrust for life.
Bakura gasps at the sensation. He wants more of this, more of Kaiba. His hands
claw at the front of the other boy�s soaked shirt, trying vainly to push hard
buttons through the wet fabric. Kaiba shifts away in resistance and Bakura
bites his bottom lip hard. The body beneath him seems to roll, sinking backwards
in surrender and Kaiba makes a strange, harsh sound in his mouth.

So the cold bastard likes getting hurt, Bakura thinks, surprised and
exhilarated.

From his pants pocket he takes the little penknife and skillfully slices the
stubborn buttons from the front of the shirt. Pushing the open garment off
Kaiba�s shoulders, he moves it down the arms, tying it quickly where the wrists
come together. Kaiba turns his head to look at the knot with an expression of
dazed dislike. To get his attention, Bakura touches his throat softly, running
the tips of his fingers over its contours. Kaiba�s neck has always been
something of a fascination for him: long and white in its nudity, like
something a renaissance artist would paint. Bakura sucks at a warm hollow and traces
blue veins with the tip of his tongue.

Beneath him, Kaiba shivers slightly, hands clenching at the twisted shirt
around his wrists. His head turns away in denial, but his breath comes in fast,
short inhalations. Bakura touches the lean length of his side in wonder. There
are striking white and pink scars on Kaiba�s chest of great variety: smooth and
jagged, short and long and painful-looking. Against Kaiba�s milky skin, his own
looks positively golden. Kaiba�s chin drops as he looks at the hand resting on
the gap between his ribcage and hip. The expression at his face frightens
Bakura and he kisses Kaiba�s temple with surprising gentleness. Kaiba look at
the hand like a half-dead beast stares down at the metal trap clamped on its
leg with a starved resignation.

�You�re not dead,� Bakura says. His hand slides up the smooth expanse of skin
and he rubs his fingers lightly against a tight, dark nipple. Kaiba flinches
and closes his eyes defensively. Bakura dips his head to lick greedily at the
damp skin, savoring the taste of rain and sweat. The chest beneath his mouth
expands and contracts with sharp, short breaths. The heart beats a frantic
rhythm.

�Stop,� Kaiba hisses through clenched teeth, his voice shaking.

Picking up the little knife from the floor, Bakura draws it over the skin of
the boy�s chest in a quick, decisive cut, drawing strange, shocked cry. Kaiba
stares at the blood welling from the shallow incision with wide eyes and a
slack mouth. He gasps sharply when Bakura bends to lick the blood away with his
small, quick tongue, like some eager animal.

�You�re alive, see?� Bakura says, rising to kiss Kaiba again. The taste of the
blood is sweet and reminiscent of wilder times; he gives it to Kaiba with a
selfless ardor, sharing the flavor of existence.

The other boy�s mouth opens easily for him and his bloody tongue slides inside.
Kaiba�s muscles strain and his shoulders push forward. Suddenly he is
responding, kissing Bakura back with unbridled hunger.

�Mngh,� Bakura moans. The heat comes upon him like a flood, singing through his
body. Kaiba�s hot, wet mouth shifts frantically against his as they fight
against the strange, insatiable hunger. Dropping the knife again, Bakura�s
fingers tighten on the flesh they rest on. He breaks away from the kiss,
bending to lick the cut once more. Kaiba pants, making little rough noises and
Bakura gasps in reply, overwhelmed by the body pressed against him, the fear
and anger and raw need in Kaiba�s flesh. Bakura pinches lightly at the nub of a
nipple, eliciting a sharp, sweet cry from his victim. Kaiba�s body rolls into
him, vibrating with unconscious desire. Mouth pressed against his collarbone,
Bakura moans in reply, electrified by the other boy�s arousal.

�Fuck,� he breathes and reaches down between Kaiba�s thighs to cup the hard
heat through his trousers.

�Nn�no,� Kaiba gasps. His eyes are wide and black and turned toward the
ceiling; only a slight ring of blue around the pupils shows in the darkness.
The shirt around his wrists makes a tearing sound, but Bakura barely hears it.
He rubs harder, moving his hand with an awkward exuberance, mouth open with
stark, transfixed desire to watch Kaiba�s head roll back against the wall.

Kaiba�s exposed throat is shockingly beautiful. His body curves in a perfect
line from the soft underside of his chin, down the long column of his neck and
the flat plane of his sternum, between dark nipples, stark ribs, and the jut of
sharp hipbones. Bakura wants to lick the delicate depression on his navel.
Instead he slips his hand underneath the clothing to grasp hot flesh. Kaiba
grits his teeth and struggles to remain silent, but his unruly body thrusts
desperately into Bakura�s palm. Bakura buries his face in the other boy�s neck,
groaning at his own uncontrollable reaction.

Little guttural sounds escape past Kaiba�s clenched teeth. He snarls at his own
weakness, biting his lips in frustration as his body continues to roll
rhythmically.

It�s too late, Bakura thinks, too late. He gasps for air against
Kaiba�s slick, sweaty skin. The friction between their bodies burns his fears
away.

�Aah,� Kaiba cries, opening his mouth at last. His eyes roll back in his head
and tears run down the sides of his nose. �No,� he groans. �No.�

It�s too late. Bakura can feel the body breaking under his hands as the
harsh rhythm reaches its peak. Kaiba comes with a soft sound like a sob. He
sags against the wall, breathing hard, eyes closed, hair sticking up at strange
angles.

Watching him, Bakura is harder than he�s ever been in his life, but he won�t
touch himself. Seeing Kaiba defeated like this is reward enough. He wipes his
sticky hand on the other�s pants with casual indifference. Kaiba doesn�t move.

�Really, Kaiba, is an orgasm that horrible?� the white-haired boy asks
mockingly. �You�re like some reluctant, wilting virgin.� He adds, in a shrill
voice, �No, I�m a good girl! Don�t do this to me!�

Immediately, Kaiba�s eyes snap open, and Bakura is momentarily startled by the
smoldering intensity in them. With a violent ripping noise, his hands come free
and he tosses the ruined shirt into Bakura�s stunned face. He pushes it away
absently and Kaiba lunges forward, catching his arm and twisting it back over
his head.

With a pained cry, Bakura hits the hard floor, his head clunking against the
cold cement. Kaiba leans over him, eyes narrowed, face hard with anger. His
hair is beginning to dry and it stands up messily from the ministrations of
Bakura�s fingers. With his left hand, he captures Bakura�s other arm and pins
them both above his head.

�I knew you liked it rough,� Bakura hisses, an unfamiliar fear sliding through
his mind.

Kaiba kisses him violently with the awkward movements of a child who doesn�t
know what he�s doing but is determined and angry enough to try. Bakura�s
breathing speeds up again as he tries to match the other boy�s movements, but
the force of Kaiba�s mouth overwhelms him. Crushed and struggling for air, he
jerks his head sideways to suck oxygen through bruised lips. He yelps in
surprise as Kaiba bites his jaw harshly, teeth clamping tightly.

�I didn�t bite that hard,� he starts to complain, but Kaiba grabs a fistful of
white hair and yanks his head down again. The pain makes Bakura dizzy, but he
likes Kaiba�s intense passion and the weight of his warm body. Experimentally, Kaiba
licks and scrapes his teeth the side of his neck. The slick, wet sensation
sends shivery thrills under his skin. Kaiba�s knee is pressed tight against his
already stiff erection and he rubs against it, moaning softly at the contact.

Kaiba doesn�t bother with knives or buttons, he simply pushes Bakura�s shirt up
with one hand, revealing the heaving chest and tight stomach. �Mm,� Bakura
murmurs, feeling Kaiba�s lips against his nipple. His eyes widen and his frame
jerks as Kaiba bites down hard.

�Shit!� His body jolts like a live wire, sparking with pain and pleasure.
�Wha�� He gasps again, drawing in a rough breath as Kaiba�s teeth tighten on
the other nipple. That hurts! he tells himself, but his dick has other
ideas and his pelvis thrusts upward to grind into Kaiba�s abdomen.

�Un,� he groans. Kaiba bites a tight line down his side, breathing hard against
the pained flesh. When his sharp, insistent teeth catch the soft flesh of his
stomach, Bakura wails and thrashes. Tears prick his eyes and he feels blunt
nails digging into his wrists and his side. The pain is overtaking the pleasure
and he wants to tell Kaiba that it doesn�t have to be like this, not this
hurried punishment for sinful release. It doesn�t have to hurt like this.

As Kaiba�s hand goes to the button on his fly, for the first time, he thinks of
the word rape. It is a strange and surreal concept for the mighty Dark
Bakura, but here he is, held down on the floor of the school building by an
angry young man who is obviously much stronger.

�Kaiba,� he rasps. Sweat slides down his neck and he hears the growl of the
zipper pulling sliding down. Kaiba�s face is blank as he pulls down the pants
and underwear, freeing the stiff erection. Bakura feels dizzy with fear and
arousal. He notices how the walls around him tremble and the typhoon winds cry
in the distance. Kaiba releases his wrists and bends down slowly, resting one
hand on Bakura�s hip and pushing the other against his thigh. His calluses are
rough against the sensitive skin and he clenches hard, lowering his head.
Bakura can�t breathe.

Kaiba takes the hard cock into his mouth without flinching, as though he is
doing something he always has and Bakura has to push himself upward with his
elbows to see the beautiful sight of a shirtless Seto Kaiba swallowing his dick
like a candy bar.

�Fucking god.� If this is a dream, he certainly doesn�t plan on waking
up anytime soon. Kaiba grips the base of the shaft and rubs it lightly between
his fingers, calluses like little, rough pads of stimulation. His mouth is like
a furnace and his dexterous tongue twists sinuously over the hard flesh.

Where the hell, did Kaiba learn to give blowjobs? Bakura wonders dazedly
through the warm fog in his brain. The mouth around his cock vibrates as Kaiba
growls suddenly and Bakura�s arms give out. He falls back to the filthy cement,
panting for air in the broiling heat of the room. Involuntarily, his spine
curves, pressing his shoulders into the floor and lifting his hips up towards
the pleasure. The pressure builds in his groin until he knows it can�t last and
he sighs with anticipation for the end.

Kaiba stops. He releases the swollen shaft from his mouth, still gripping the
base with one hand. He glowers up at a shivering, panting Bakura from dark blue
eyes.

Bakura clenches his teeth, body screaming in agony, aching for release. �You
bastard,� he hisses, starting to sit up.

Kaiba squeezes his cock hard and his elbows weaken again, sending his head back
to the floor with a surprised groan. Smoothly, Kaiba bends to take it back in
his mouth again, sucking lightly on the head. His tongue is almost rough on the
hyper-sensitive skin.

Eyes rolling to the ceiling, Bakura feels that his body is melting together
into this soft, liquid mass of nerves and sensations. It has becomes something
he cannot control: this desperate, molten rhythm. Here on the cold, hard floor
of the school stairwell in the middle of a hurricane, he is lying in the dark
with wet leaves in his hair, helpless to do anything but thrust into the increased
pressure, pushing toward an imminent breaking point. Behind his eyes, he starts
to see white.

And then Kaiba stops. His face is dark and intense, with no sign or pleasure or
glee in Bakura�s suffering. This is something of a punishment, a revenge, but
it seems more like a quest to drive the white-haired youth beneath him even
more insane that he already is.

Bakura swears again, thrashing against the floor. His hands grope toward his
stomach, but Kaiba yanks them away. Even as the taller boy begins the torture
again, Bakura curses viciously until he runs out of words. His muscles burn
with the strain and exertion. Scrabbling against the floor, his fingernails
scrape cement painfully. When Kaiba�s teeth scrape lightly over the skin of his
cock, he arches back so far he can see the wall behind his head, cracked and
grimy. A spider perched there stares back at his flushed, desperate face and
wild eyes.

Losing himself, he screams. The room blurs out of recognition again, wavering,
its edges glowing white. Bakura�s eyes clench shut and he grabs a fistful of
Kaiba�s smooth hair in one hand, bringing the other boy�s head down as he
thrusts upwards, pounding into the tight heat. Kaiba chokes and coughs against
the onslaught, pulling away. But Bakura is too close, too far gone and he
empties himself into the reluctant mouth.

The world slows to the collapse of his body on the cement in a lazy, sweaty
sprawl. He feels boneless, like cooling wax. There is only the rapid beat of
his heart and the slowing of his hard breathing.

Kaiba coughs and spits on his stomach. Flinching, Bakura opens his eyes to
stare back at the taller boy whose eyes are wide with disgust and horror. Kaiba
wipes his mouth his long fingers, standing shakily to back away from the other
boy. He spits again, on the floor and turns back to Bakura, looking down with
revulsion.

�Get off my coat,� he says.

The intensity in his voice is so sharp that Bakura seriously thinks about
shifting. Unfortunately, his body has temporarily abandoned all commands from
his brain and continues to lie indolently, heavy with fulfillment. He thinks to
himself that Kaiba�s coat feels really good and Kaiba looks really good without
a shirt, despite his emaciated condition.

�It�s got spooge on it,� Bakura replies sleepily. Well, he can�t really tell,
but it probably does. His body aches pleasantly and he feels like falling
asleep right here.

Kaiba makes a rough, angry sound in his lovely white throat and turns away.
Closing his eyes, Bakura can hear the other boy�s hard footsteps on the stairs
as he flees the building. Clonk, clonk, clonk. They grow fainter.

�Run away, run away,� Bakura sings under his breath. It sounds like something
Ryou would say. He moves his fingers gingerly to see if he still can.

The room is getting colder now but the winds have died down to soft sighs
punctuated by the occasional rattle or hiss. His shoulder blades are starting
to hurt along with his thighs and the back of his scull. Alone, he lies on the
cement, hair darkened with dirt, shirt pushed up under his armpits. His fly is
open and his limp dick hangs out like a flag of surrender. On his stomach, a
mixture of semen and saliva is beginning to dry unpleasantly.

�Shit,� he says to no one, to himself, to the voyeuristic spider on the wall.

At least he still has Kaiba�s coat.

5. Stay

In the aftermath of the storm, students are assigned to clean up around the
school, raking up leaves and branches, picking up shattered glass and debris.
Bakura finds Kaiba in the old art building, taping plastic to a broken window.
A pretty, plump girl stands beside him, holding the tape and scissors with
happy enthusiasm.

�You, the teacher wants you,� Bakura says, catching her eye with a tight smile.

�What?� Her eyes widen in confusion. �Who are you?�

He puts a hand on her shoulder, digging his fingernails into the muscle. His
grin is sharp and viciously feral.

�I�m sorry, you didn�t hear me? I said, fuck off, bitch.�

Helpfully, he takes the materials from her and watches her scamper down the
hall, tears welling in her bright eyes.

Kaiba grasps the tape from his hands and rolls off another long strip, face
cool and blank as stone. Decisively, he applies it to the plastic in one smooth
movement. Bakura watches the veins on his hands, the cigarette burn on his
finger, the cracked watch glinting on his wrist.

Don�t ignore me, he wants to say. Don�t wrap yourself up in that icy
world of pretending. He grits his teeth. I made you bleed. I have little
dark bite-marks all over my body like bruises. I saw your fucking scars.
Whoever is hurting you, making you suck him off, I�ll kill him if you want it.
Look at me, you cold bastard.

But Bakura says nothing. Slowly he lifts he hand and rests it on the back of
Kaiba�s neck, feeling the warmth of the skin, the thickness of the hair all
over again. Beneath his palm, he senses the tensing of the shoulders, the
tightening of the neck, the nearly imperceptible traces of emotion. Inwardly,
Kaiba is tearing slowly, breaking with a deep, penetrating fear. His flesh
roils with denial and a bitter, hidden grief. Losing, he strains against
conflicting revulsion and desire like a hungry man before rotting fruit. Like
some feral animal, he is poised to run, to shrug off these feelings with anger
or indifference.

He doesn�t pull away from Bakura or push his hand away. He doesn�t try to meet
Bakura�s eyes. He doesn�t speak at all.

Most importantly, he doesn�t run.

-end-
- 1
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Five Ways to Deal