The ring spirit will be referred to as "Bakura", Ryou Bakura as "Ryou".

I don't own YuGiOh

Fighting and losing

He could remember that his soulroom used to change.

Only slightly, even imperceptibly; but every time he returned to it, something was a little different. Sometimes objects appeared or disappeared; more often, one of them had changed its place, or appeared more or less clear, as if it was new. He was not always able to tell what it was, but even then, he could feel something had changed.

But that was over; rarely, and almost never when he was alone, there would be a faint breeze, a minuscule change in the brightness of the light; other than that – things seemed not to have moved since forever. They didn't even disappear, they didn't even pale. It was as if his soulroom was frozen.

Of course, there was the dust: he wasn't sure if it really increased or if it was his increasing annoyance over it that made it seem so. He was aware that it had to be metaphorical dust, some sign of the decaying, forgotten state in which his soul was (as far as he could guess; he certainly did feel like some useless object someone had put into his attic because he had some spare space and he didn't quite feel like just throwing it away yet...), and that it probably wouldn't go away anyway, but he couldn't help wishing he could just clean it up. However, there wasn't anything like a broom or a vacuum-cleaner or simply just a duster in his soulroom. Apparently, he hadn't been enough of a neat-freak. Though it wouldn't really surprise him if his soulroom was purposely being contrary. That would be fitting.

It was weird, he decided, as he shifted a little on his chair (it looked almost exactly like the bureau chair he really owned; why this piece of furniture was in his soulroom, out of all things, he couldn't tell), to look at the wall furthest away from the door: he had always enjoyed keeping to himself a lot, had always had a vivid imagination, and tended to be a little distracted, so to miss things that were right before his eyes. He wouldn't have expected himself to be so dependent on exterior influence. But now that his only-

He froze in place, and then desperately tried to remain relaxed, searched the wall for something to focus on; he didn't understand why, but he always felt the presence instants before the door opened; and he could always tell when it was open. He guessed that one might see this as a positive thing: at least he could not be caught by surprise. But considering how useless this advantage would always be, it was really nothing but another emphasis of his powerlessness.

He had felt the door shift open; now, he heard it close again softly. There was a box standing against the wall, like the ones he'd used last time he'd moved with his whole family; he knew it was empty, and it was taking away a lot of space, and-

His shoulders sacked down; this time it could very well be an illusion, but he had the impression to feel the presence right behind him, and – what use was there in pretending?

He made his chair turn slowly, until he was facing the door.

The spirit was leaning against the wall right next to it, arms crosses, his head bowed enough to hide his eyes, but not the smirk on his lips; he was wearing a blue and white shirt, jeans, – both his – and a black trench-coat on which the raindrops were glittering in the faint light; hair tousled even more than usually, and heavy with water as well, all of it bringing up vivid memories of fresh night air and rain and life in him.

He looked away again to escape the smirk, and remembered not to clench his fists. So what if he still had less patience than the thief and if he was predictable and doing what was expected, again? It wasn't as if the spirit got anything out of it! Besides, it was a normal thing to turn round when someone entered the room.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the spirit slowly push himself off the wall and make his way over to him. He didn't move until the spirit shiftily lifted up his chin; the fabric of the coat briefly brushed over his cheek, leaving a few raindrops pearling there, and his fingers were cold, both sensations pleasant enough for Ryou to have an excuse to lean into the touch.

Eventually, probably losing another game of patience he hadn't meant to enter, he raised his gaze to look at the thief, who was now watching him attentively, waiting.

"Where are we?" he asked softly; sometimes, rarely, the spirit answered his questions: it was worth a try. "When? What happened?"

The spirit raised his eyebrows at that; for a moment, it seemed like he would say something; but then he simply let go his of chin and made a step back.

Ryou dropped his head again

Finally, when his spirit still said nothing, Ryou moved his chair over to the small table in the middle of the room, whipped out his deck and laid it down on the table, and waited, eyes downcast.

It took another moment that seemed endless, before the thief followed that movement, grabbed a second chair and sat across of him; only then, Ryou slowly raised his eyes.

"Why do you keep doing this?" the spirit asked mildly. "You always lose."

Ryou pressed his lips together and shrugged.

"Battle City rules?"

The spirit nodded, and they exchanged their decks; Ryou admired the ease with which the other handled the cards: his own ability in it had sometimes provoked admiration, but this came from many years of practice, and was nothing compared to the thief. It wouldn't be so unsettling if it wasn't for the fact it meant that he was able to control his body much better than he ever had ever been...

"What are we playing for?" the spirit asked, giving his deck back. "You freedom? The millennium eye? What we eat tomorrow?"

"Nothing..." Ryou murmured quietly.

"Nothing? You'll regret it if you win."

Ryou just shrugged and didn't look up as he drew six cards from his deck, then a seventh one.

They played their duel in silence; the spirit built up defences, almost never attacked. Ryou did his best not to let it work on him. Half of the time, there was no strategy behind it other than having him lose patience once again, attack blindly or, worse, draw back, hide...

"I sacrifice Possessed Painting to summon Ghost Count...!" Ryou announced, while laying down the card, which possessed 2000 points in attack, and 700 in defence. "In attack position."

He silently reprimanded himself for the visible hesitation even as he said the last words: obviously, he would not offer a sacrifice for the monster if it was to keep it in defence; and Bakura had only a single monster, also in attack, and of only 1600 attack points, no face down cards – and he had only 900 life points left. He had to take the risk... He announced his attack, thus destroying his opponent's last monster, and reducing his life points to 500, while he was still only a little under four thousand.

"My turn..." With a smirk, the spirit drew, briefly glanced at the card in his hand. "I play a magic card..."

Ryou's fingers clenched on his own cards, and his gaze was very fix. The spirit laid the card down, but he already knew what it would, had to be.

"Change of heart," the spirit said softly.

Ryou opened his hands, so that his cards fell on the table, some face up, others face down.

"You give up?" The spirit leaned over the table to turn round the cards that were face down and frowned. "You had a good hand."

With an angry growl, Ryou reached for Bakura cards and turned them round; he drew out one of them, and held it up accusingly. It was "card destruction".

"So?" Bakura said. "I didn't know what cards you had. I might not have played it now."

"Why," Ryou murmured. "Why do I always lose? We have the same deck. I don't play any worse than you." He glared up, waiting for a protest that didn't come. "You – you draw better cards. Why? This is my soul room."

Bakura just smirked.

"And what does that say about you?"

Ryou shrank back on his chair, eyes wide.

"No..." he said.

The spirit continued to smirk, and calmly recollected the cards, before rising shiftily, and walking over to his other half, who continued to stare at the table with wide eyes.

"No," Ryou repeated with more force, but without looking up at the spirit that was standing right beside him now. "It's not – you've rigged it somehow..."

"No."

Bakura reached out to grab his chin, but before he could, Ryou stood up quickly to face him; he was as tall as his spirit, but still felt as if he was being looked down at. It had to be a trick too.

Bakura gently caressed his cheek with two fingers; Ryou closed his eyes briefly. Ever since he had locked him away permanently – at least so it seemed – the spirit had made no gesture towards him that wasn't gentle. He didn't need to.

"I want to get out," Ryou demanded, and his voice was quivering; Bakura didn't answer. "I want to see my friends again," he added with more force.

"I'll kill them..." The spirit's voice was low and dark. "First the cheerleaders, then his little keeper, and then him..." Ryou stared up at him, eyes wide; his mouth gaped open without a sound. "It'll hurt more if you see them again..." His face was so close that Ryou could feel his warm breath. "Let go."

"No..." Ryou repeated. "I – let me out. Just for a moment..."

Bakura smirked again.

"We'll duel for it next time."

He made a step back; in a brisk movement, Ryou followed him, threw both arms around his neck and dragged him close, so that he could feel his heartbeat, and buried his head against his shoulder. His fingers clenched around the back of the collar of the shirt – his – and he felt both proud and shocked when he managed to rip it. He closed his eyes and dug his nails into the spirit's skin as strongly as he could, leaving red marks that would remain when the parasite reclaimed control of his now abandoned body. Bakura didn't even flinch.

After a moment, the spirit laid a hand on his chest and pushed him back.

Ryou's arms slumped down; he opened his mouth, automatically compelled to give an apology, then remained silent. The spirit studied him for another moment, through narrowed eyes, before wordlessly turning round. Ryou heard the door fall close softly.

He could remember that his spirit used to be angry, hateful and dangerous.

Sometimes, it was hard not to forget. He had been put aside; he didn't count anymore; and no-one would notice, and no-one who noticed could do anything about it, and he had stopped being part of the battle – and of life. The spirit kept him safe.

He slumped down against the wall, and bit down tears. Then, he stood up bravely, walked back to the table, recollected his own cards, and laid them down before himself to rethink his strategy. Soon, he had immersed himself in this, certain he would lose again.

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