Midnight Dance
Every night, on the hour, without fail. Midnight on the dot. The spirit didn't have any possible way to measure time, locked up in that head of his, but somehow each and every day he knew the exact second the witching hour began. The very moment when his only source of light and warmth was as far away as it could possibly be, when darkness ruled all and the stars' cold light cast dancing shadows upon the walls. Unerringly, unrelentingly, their dance began at midnight.
It started out politely. "May I cut in?" he'd ask, and Ryou had little choice but to clasp his hand in Bakura's and allow himself to be whisked away. Things would be slow at first as he was spun about the dance floor, twirled further and further away from the comfort of familiarity; although this dance was familiar by now – too familiar – it offered no comfort. Then the momentum picked up, and they'd spin and whirl like flies above a carcass, the other dancers a blur around him.
Then the dancing was less a tango and more a violent gypsy dance, and Ryou'd find himself being flung sharply around, bumping into others, helpless to stop or beg for release. Bakura gripped on tighter and tighter – his knuckles would have been white with the strength, but his skin was like paper already – and his head swam with the blurred figures and shapes around him, colors whizzing past, lights like shooting stars – too bright – and movements like a roller coaster – too savage.
The other dancers left them to their violent union and suddenly the dance floor was empty but for the two rapidly spinning beings, no longer two different people but a single entity, Ryou glued to Bakura with the force of the motion and Bakura clasping Ryou safely against him as they whirled and twirled and spun and twisted and turned until Ryou was sure for all the white skin and white hair and red eyes taking up his vision and the dips and turns and pivots making his head swim and his stomach churn that he swore he couldn't breathe–
And then Bakura was gone.
The secure grasp left and the momentum carried Ryou to the ground, hitting him hard. It would have knocked the breath out of him, but as it turns out, that breath had been stolen.
A long while passed then. Eventually, he shakily got up, dusted himself off, and stood – wobbling – for a moment, letting the fluid in his ears and the bile in his stomach settle. His head, however, remained full of thoughts – like angry bees in his mind – as he dragged himself off the dance floor, through the double doors of his mind, and out into the unforgiving shadows of the darkest hour. Midnight.