Rated for language. To simplify things, Ryou Bakura is referred to by his last name and Ryuuji Otogi by his first. (I think that's how it is in the manga anyway?)

Forgot about the title until the last minute, so this one is shamelessly stolen from R.E.M.

Written for contest.

Here's the thing: Ryuuji Otogi hates Ryou Bakura.

There are reasons: but the reasons aren't important. Ryuuji chalks most of it up to petty jealousy—jealousy over some insomniac wilting pretty boy who garners more attention from girls and teachers and even Ryuuji's own friends without even trying, who is important, who can hold the interest of the Devil for the span of his entire life when Ryuuji can't keep it for more than five minutes.

It doesn't make sense; he doesn't care. It's just one more secret he never intends to tell.

And it has to be a secret, because life goes smoother when everyone gets along. It's a secret because there's nothing Ryuuji can do about it; it's a secret because you can't confront a person when you are never actually sure whether you're speaking to them or to the lazy-eyed demon occupying their body.

There are other considerations. For instance, the goodwill of his friends. Ryuuji can't risk that: he's never had friends before and he doesn't think he could get more, not like them. He's always been quick-witted and charming and sometimes he's even likable, but he's rarely good, and he'd never wanted to be until now.

That's the only part of this equation that bothers him: the fact that he's still plagued by this kind of deep resentment. He's comforted by the fact that he only slightly dislikes the Pharaoh and doesn't dislike Yuugi at all; but then again he can acknowledge Yuugi's superiority and Yugi is willing to acknowledge him. Bakura? Bakura's eyes travel over Ryuuji as if he wasn't there.

So Ryuuji knows he has to do something. Even the best-kept secrets will spill given enough time, and time is running out-if he waits too long, the gods will rise and then what? They'll destroy each other without his help, and once the dust settles there'll be nothing to prove. Not to anyone that matters.

After Yuugi collects the three God cards, Ryuuji knows that he can't wait any longer. He waits until the weekend, long enough to ensure that everyone will be spending more time in front of their TVs than in each other's company, and then he goes to Ryou Bakura's house.

The sky, low and dark, wasn't exactly promising. The showers had been coming and going all day, and were sure to come again. This kind of gloom wasn't unusual; it rained all the time here, so close to the ocean, but Ryuuji didn't like it all the same. Clouds like that didn't bode well.

Ryuuji wasn't supposed to know where Bakura lived. He'd begged the address out of Honda ages ago for some made-up reason—games or homework or a favor he needed—-he can't even remember anymore.

The apartment complex was low-rent and wholly unremarkable, crowded with college students and poor young parents and drug addicts. Children skateboarded in the parking lot while further back, a clump of adults smoked cigarettes under the stairs. They were watching Ryuuji like a pack wild dogs, eyes hungry for a sign of weakness. Ryuuji pulled his collar higher and stared them down until they break their gaze.

He found the building Bakura was supposed to live in and climbed the stairs to the second floor. He stopped at the top.

Bakura was already outside.

He was standing at the end of the landing, pressed against the balcony, hair hanging damply against his forehead. He wore a sweater with the sleeves pushed up around the elbows and jeans that pooled around tennis shoes, heels worn out from too much walking. His clothes looked too big for him, but these days he was so skinny he looked swamped no matter what he was wearing.

It's another reason Ryuuji knew the end was close.

Bakura's watching the kids in the parking lot. The way he was facing, he had to have seen Ryuuji coming, but beside a mumbled "Good afternoon," he didn't even give Ryuuji the courtesy of eye contact. He was holding something in his hands; a toy, a three inch wooden figurine, probably from one of his RPGs. His front door was ajar behind him, as if he'd just walked outside, but the hems of his jeans were wet where they'd dragged on the ground, beads of water hanging off the ends of his hair. In the parking lot, a child shrieked with either joy or outrage—Ryuuji didn't know how to tell with kids.

"You normally leave your door open when you go out?" Ryuuji said, as smoothly as he knew how, swinging around the bannisters and approaching the end of the landing, one hand trailing along the metal railing. Water pooled around his fingers and streamed onto the concrete below, as if to herald his arrival, and slowly Bakura's head turned toward him.

Even more slowly, he pivoted on one heel to look at the door.

"Oh," he said. "Right." He turned back to face the rain, pushed the hair out of his face. His sleeves were wet where they'd been touching the railing. "Can I help you with something?"

Another scream—a different kid this time, a girl—and Ryuuji thought of the hungry eyes of the adults downstairs.

"Inside," he said, and Bakura nodded, his chin dropping to his chest once, his eyes rising before his head did. He straightened.

He nudged the door open with his foot and kicked his shoes off on the inner landing as he held the door open for Ryuuji, who found the courtesies irritating but followed suit, treading over the fraying carpet in socks as Bakura led the way into the kitchen. Immediately Bakura found for the stove, flipping on the gas range with an easy twist of his fingers, blue flames bursting out from under a black kettle.

"Tea?" he asked, and his voice was quiet. He'd put the figurine from before on the edge of the counter, and now Ryuuji could see that it was a monster. Ryuuji didn't know where it was from; he didn't recognize it: a naga, half human, half snake, pale, body coiled like a spring, arms raised to strike. Bakura was clearly in the middle of making it: the face was just a smooth expanse, the hands clenched around an invisible weapon.

"No, thanks," Ryuuji says. He picked the figurine up, felt the remnants of heat from Bakura's hands, put it back down. He was itching to do something, to break the polite silence Bakura had erected like a barrier between them, but there was a time and a place for demands, and right now he needed Bakura to be dependent on his whims.

So he remained silent, and watched Bakura open a cutlery drawer, run his fingers over forks and knives before selecting a spoon and lifting it to his lips. He left it pressed there, as if kissing it, his eyelids lowering…

"Ryuuji," he said, in a tone that could have been fearful if Ryuuji didn't know any better. "What are you doing here?"

Ryuuji shifted his weight from one hip to the other, shoved his hands in his pockets, flipped his head up to get the hair out of his eyes. "You know what."

Bakura's expression didn't change. "He won't talk to you."

"I think he will."

There was a pause. Bakura put the spoon down and braced both hands against the counter. "It's not like you're the first person who's tried—"

"Those people aren't me," Ryuuji said, and that's when he circled the counter, fingers trailing along the countertop, skipping over the smoother surface of the stove, watching Bakura back into the corner, cautious but not afraid. It pissed him off that Bakura wasn't afraid.

"He talks to you," Ryuuji said. "And you're no better than me, are you?"

They were close enough to touch now, the space between them electric. Ryuuji only had a few inches on Bakura, but it was enough to make intimidation easy. He leaned down, lowered his voice to a whisper. "What's so great about you, anyway?"

Bakura's lips moved, but no air escaped his lips, and after a minute he closed his eyes, gave a swift shake of the head, and said, firmly, "It doesn't matter. He won't—"

"He will if I hurt you."

Ryuuji didn't have a weapon, but he didn't need one. The threat was enough, if he was willing to carry it out. He was.

And Bakura could tell; his lips parted, just barely, as he exhaled. "Ah," he said. "So it's like that."

"Fucked up, isn't it?" Ryuuji said easily. "I know it too, but hey, blame it on my shitty childhood. I get sick of playing nice."

"Yeah," Bakura said, sounding breathless. "I've noticed."

Ryuuji was enjoying this more than he should, and the thought made him sick, but he couldn't help the grin that snaked across his face. "I bet you did."

What he saw next made him feel better; Bakura wasn't listening to him anymore. Ryuuji could tell by the way his eyes had gone glassy, by the sudden, involuntary clench of his fingers against the drawers behind him. As Ryuuji watched, anticipation building, he caught the slight gasp, the slow relaxing of Bakura's shoulders.

"Listen," Bakura said. "I'm sorry, but I can't—"

"Don't feed me that bullshit." Ryuuji says. Smoothly, almost casually, he lifted his hand to Bakura's neck, pulled his collar down, just enough to reveal the cord that kept the Millennium Ring hidden under his clothes. Bakura wore it every day, and they all knew he didn't have to.

"He's talking to you right now, isn't he?" Ryuuji continued. "He's got something to say. Just tell me what it is."

"He doesn't have anything to say to you."

"I'll be the judge of that."

Bakura's lips tightened into a line; he was irritated, but when he tried to move away Ryuuji slammed a hand against his chest, and pushed him back. The wet wool of Bakura's sweater bunched between Ryuuji's fingers, the Ring, the Ring underneath pulsing heat against his palm.

"Don't bother," Ryuuji says, adrenaline pounding. "I'm not fucking around."

Bakura's skin was pale, his body pressed flat against the cabinets, but his voice was even. "Neither am I."

Ryuuji felt the point of something sharp against his stomach and froze. Bakura's expression was calm, the color slowing coming back into his skin as he took one breath, and then another. The knife he held in his left hand isn't from the kitchen; it's a switchblade. Behind them, Ryuuji hears the kettle on the stove start to whistle.

"He has nothing to say to you," Bakura repeats. "But if I were you, I'd stop asking." His expression twists; he smiles. "He gets bored with begging."

Honda, who paid attention to this kind of thing, had once told Ryuuji that it was impossible to tell the difference between Bakura and the spirit of the ring unless the spirit voluntarily revealed himself, but Ryuuji had been sure that if he'd been there, if he was close enough, it would be obvious.

It isn't.

"I'm not begging," he said. "I'm—"

The knife dug deeper; not painfully, just enough to remind him that it was there. "Yes, you are," Bakura corrected softly. "I don't know what you want, but wanting won't get you anywhere with him. You had to know that already. You're not an idiot."

No. Ryuuji had known better than to force a confrontation. He'd waited, played the long game. He wasn't smart enough to satisfy the demon inside of Bakura, but he was smart enough to see the future, to catch glimpses of the net woven over the space of thousands of years, to know that some day, soon, there would be a showdown between the demon inside Bakura and the demon inside of Yuugi.

There would be a showdown, because that's the way the world turns, and Ryuuji knew that the Pharaoh would win, because he always does. Ryuuji had only had that one window of time, one slim window, where he could have proved the Ring wrong, where he could drag acknowledgement out of Ryou Bakura while it still mattered.

He'd never been able to figure out how.

"I had no choice," he found himself whispering. "There's no time left." Yuugi had all the keys, now all he needed was to find the door. And no matter what kind of game lay behind it, it wouldn't matter. The Pharaoh never lost.

Bakura's eyes were bright. He exhaled. Behind him, the kettle was screaming. But Ryuuji didn't need to hear the words Bakura whispered; he can read his lips just as easily.

I know.

Ryuuji's mouth was dry. "Does he?"

As if in response, he felt the Ring go cold under his hand; he didn't understand what it meant until Bakura's hand curled around his wrist, pulling it away from his chest. When Ryuuji let go, Bakura pushed away from the counter and away from Ryuuji. He readjusted his collar as he returned to the stove and switched the range off. As the kettle slowly stopped shrieking, Bakura stood still and looked down at the knife still in his hands. He played with the blade, a slight frown on his face.

"He's not afraid of losing," Bakura said, in answer to his question. "But that's why you're here, isn't it?"

Ryuuji felt a surge of anger and for once didn't have the control to hold it back. "Fuck you," he said. "I'm not—"

He cut himself off. He didn't need to explain himself to Bakura, who lived in the presence of a poltergeist, who daily heard the voice that had only ever told Ryuuji one thing.

And Ryuuji couldn't forget. Every time he looked at Ryou Bakura he could hear the Other's voice in his ears, his laughter ringing like the trumpets on Judgment day. Only two people had ever told Ryuuji that he wasn't good enough: his father and the Spirit of the Ring. But his father's opinion was infallible and therefore untouchable, so his only chance at justification waited behind Ryou Bakura's teeth.

You aren't strong enough. Not good enough, not clever enough, not powerful enough. To the spirit inside the Millennium Ring, Ryuuji Otogi was about as interesting as horse shit, but Ryou Bakura? He's a fucking temple.

Ryou was still watching him. Ryuuji frowned and crossed his arms, leaning back against the counter like like this was some casual conversation. Like he didn't care what Ryou thought.

"I'm didn't come so you could psychoanalyze me."

"Then why?"

Ryuuji frowns at him, tosses his hair. "Curiosity."

"Killed the cat, right?" Bakura's not smirking, not quite, but his eyes are warm. "You would have let me stab you."

Ryuuji lifted a calculated eyebrow, scoffed. "You'd never actually—"

"Do you know that for sure?" Bakura said abruptly. "I don't." Before Ryuuji could reply, he spun back, faced Ryuuji. He left his left hand, the hand holding the knife, down at his side, but with his right hand he pushed Ryuuji's hair aside, fingers pressing against his neck, his collarbone. "Jugular, carotid." He lowered his hand to Ryuuji's folded arms, tapped cold fingers against the top of his wrist before trailing them up the length of one arm. "Brachial." He touched front of Ryuuji's jacket. "There's a whole bunch here. But I would probably have gone for the iliac artery…" His fingers just barely brushed the front of Ryuuji's jeans, then pulled away. "Or the femoral. Inner thigh."

Ryuuji forced himself to breathe. "Is that supposed to scare me?"

"No," Bakura said. "But maybe I'm just used to it." He turned around, walked back to the stove. Without looking at Ryuuji, he closed the knife and slid it into in his back pocket.

"Sure you don't want tea?" he asked. "I think it's going to start raining again."

Ryuuji wondered what Bakura knew, if he had guessed what Ryuuji would do if he had kept going. He decided he was too pissed to care.

He unfolded his arms, shook his head, laughed. "And I thought I was fucked up."

The statement was calculated to strike deep, and it did; Bakura's head snapped up, his voice sharp. "I'm not on his side."

"Just on his payroll, huh?" Ryuuji said, sliding away from the counter. It gave him more than a little satisfaction to see the involuntary flush in Bakura's cheeks. "I might not be as great as you, Bakura, but I'm not blind."

He reached the edge of the counter, where the naga sat unfinished. Ryuuji barely touched it; just a neat flick of the fingers was enough to send it spinning.

Bakura didn't look down, he looked at Ryuuji, and when the figurine spun off the edge of the counter and clattered onto the floor, Ryuuji was the one who flinched.

Bakura's hands close into fists. "I'm not better than anyone," he said. "Just more convenient."

It didn't help. Ryuuji swallowed his rage, let it congeal into bitterness. "I'm sure that's easy to say from where you're standing," he says dryly. "But I'll pass on the pity, thanks."

Bakura shuddered, his eyelids pressing shut for the briefest moment, but when he opened his eyes again, his expression hadn't changed.

"You might want to leave now."

He said it politely, as if it was an invitation, but Ryuuji knew what it meant. He laughed. He'd had enough of this bullshit anyway.

As he closed the door behind him, Ryuuji glanced back. Bakura was still standing at the counter, his hands curled at his sides. For an instant Ryuuji thought he might have seen his shoulders shake, but no, that was just wishful thinking. Bakura was still as a statue, his expression closed, his eyes distant.

At least Ryuuji withstood the urge to slam the door, but he knew it was because he didn't think he could stand the sound.

The kids were still screaming out in the parking lot. Ryuuji zipped his coat up and trotted down the stairs, striding past the adults lurking underneath without looking their direction. He couldn't stop smelling wet wool, couldn't stop hearing the ringing in his ears.

Maybe, he thought cynically, they'll both get lucky. Maybe Bakura will die when the spirit does.

Bakura doesn't die. Six weeks later, when Ryuuji flies out to the tomb to watch the Pharaoh meet his fate, Bakura's still there, still alive, still enigmatically polite, cheerfully distant. It's only when the stones crumbles into dust around their feet that Ryuuji dares to look directly at him, and sees the glint of teeth, the flutter of loose fingers. When Bakura looks back, Ryuuji's stomach flips.

And then Jounouchi says something and someone else laughs. The mood changes, and Ryou looks away. But Ryuuji knows.

In every way but one, Ryou's the exact same person: a teenaged weirdo, hung over on ghost stories and Dungeons & Dragons, bitter from experience, joyful in forced innocence, in love with a void, starving, exhilarate, imperfect.

And now, Ryuuji thinks, telling himself to be satisfied, he's a failure, too.

Ryou doesn't look his way again.

End