Disclaimer: I do not own Yugioh or any characters from Yugioh described in this fic.
"Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe."
"Jabberwocky" - Lewis Carrol
Jabberwocky
How simple it seemed. A children's poem, nonsensical at best. Ryou Bakura, however, had always been imaginative; a little too much so. The images it had conjured in his five-year-old mind had been of sinuous, wizened trees, gloomy shadows in which nameless things hid and cackled, darkness chasing the last of the moonbeams across the forest floor. Light did not belong there. And yet, frozen with fear as he was in these half-dreams, there was always something that drove him on to seek what it was that terrified him so. It was his downfall, the thing that had made him pick up the beautiful, and yet sinister golden ring, that made him ignore the cold whispers, the mocking laughter that seemed to penetrate his very soul. The spirit of the ring; his nemesis, a creature of night, of fear, created in his own image. The shadow that stalked him through the dark forests ever populating his dreams. His Jabberworcky.
"Bakura?"
Elbow slipping partially off the table where it had been unconsciously resting for the last half-hour, the white-haired boy glanced up sheepishly. "Yugi, I'm sorry, I . . ."
The shorter boy grinned back. "No need to explain." He hopped up, seating himself on the table-top across from Bakura, legs dangling some distance off the ground.
"Watcha doin?" Joey Wheeler's voice preceeded him. A lanky arm reached over Bakura's shoulder and snatched the open text book. "Gaaah, trig ratios . . ." He dropped the heavy book, narrowly missing the white-haired boy's head. "Bad for ya health, man."
Bakura watched him with a strange fascination reserved for chimpanzees and Picasso artworks as the blonde boy simultaneously ripped open three packets of crisps and began to wolf them down ravenously. Yugi seemed not to mind and prattled on, regardless of the occasional damp crumb ending up in his lap.
"Haven't seen you around, lately. Do you always hole yourself up in here?"
Underlying the cheery tone was a hint of concern and Bakura sighed inwardly. "Everything's fine, Yugi." He did not add that he just preferred being alone now and then.
Joey paused, watching him closely with a scrutiny that was unsettling in those candid brown eyes. "If I ain't mistaken, ya lookin' kinda peaky, man."
He wrinkled his nose in what the girls seemed to think was an endearing fashion. "Caught in the rain the other day . . . might be coming down with something."
Joey nodded, still looking slightly unconvinced. Yugi glanced between them, large eyes betraying just how awkward he thought this moment was.
Clearing his throat, Bakura stood. "Well, class in a few minutes . . . "
"Hey, we ain't chasin' ya!" Joey had the grace to look embarrassed. "Tell ya what, we'll walk ya."
Before he could protest, an arm generously coated in spring-onion flavoured crumbs was draped rather forcefully over his shoulders and he was dragged forth, a resigned expression in place. He was glad his hair had escaped yet another tousle.
They had invited him to the game shop after school, Joey even offering to wait for him at his locker. His heart warmed slightly when he realised that the boy was trying his hardest to make up for earlier. But he was feeling rather under the weather. After politely declining, he took the quickest route home.
The apartment was dark; he had forgotten to draw the blinds. Cursing softly, he stumbled through the living room, twisting the cord as rapidly as possible. He drew in a sharp breath of relief as light flooded the room.
"Silly twit, afraid of the dark." He grinned shakily, adjusting his school coat, knowing just how hollow his words sounded. He ambled into the kitchen, popping a frozen pizza into the oven and pouring himself a glass of orange juice. Much to his annoyance, his hand was still quivering. Setting the glass firmly down on the counter, he took another deep breath and began to count to ten.
"One . . . two . . . "
A bird sang outside on the windowsill. He could hear his neighbour's lawnmower, muted sounds of an action movie on television.
" . . . three . . . four . . ."
The clatter of crockery as someone did the dishes. Another clinking sound, closer. The zip and hum of the kitchen light above his head as it began to flicker.
" . . . five . . . six . . ."
A rattling, much closer again. He opened his eyes, feeling the edge of the kitchen table dig into his fingers. The light was completely extinguished with the soft 'ping' of a dying element. He remembered in a detached manner that he had changed the bulb just last week.
" . . . seven . . . eight . . ."
The blinds in the living room sprang shut. The cutlery began to rattle harder, forks and knives beating out a staccato tune. Cupboard doors sprang open around him, narrowly missing his face, but he remained immobile. Lips drew back from teeth in a ghastly rictus of horror as he felt a familiar weight sink like a lodestone around his neck.
" . . . nine . . . ten."
The last word was a whisper. Somewhere, a lawnmower still ran, a child shrieked with laughter. He lowered his eyes, the only part of him that he dared move, and saw his distorted reflection stare back from the glass of orange juice. Ripples swirled across the surface. In some other part of his mind, one that still denied the logic of what was happening to him, he could say that the darkening of his eyes, the slanting of their lids, the unruly spikiness of his hair and the sharp canines that gleamed through a cocky half-smile were figments of his imagination. But he knew better.
Something snapped. He wrenched himself away from the table with a hoarse cry. Stumbling backwards, he fled into the living room, snatching up his keys from the table. A laugh ghosted past his ear.
"No! No! You won't! Not again!"
A rough sob burst from his throat as he desperately tried to push the key into the lock, but somehow, it wouldn't fit.
"Landlooooord . . ." The mocking whisper echoed throughout the apartment, trailing teasingly.
"Bastard! You bastard! Leave me alone!" He screamed, hammering with all his might on the door, the key lying forgotten on the rug.
"Now, now, is that any way to talk to your friends?"
A ragged, humourless laugh escaped him as a familiar rage and hopelessness flared through his veins. "I HOPE YOU BURN IN HELL!"
"Landlord!" The voice chided him as if he were a child, but the ethereal force that knocked him backwards over the sofa was anything but gentle. "Do I have to educate you in manners all over again?"
Groaning slightly, Bakura flopped over onto his stomach, opened one eye and froze. There was a foot beside his head. A slightly transparent foot wearing his school shoe. His gaze travelled upwards unwillingly, past the school trousers, the hand casually tucked into the right pocket, past the coat, looking slightly more imposing on the somehow sharper, broader angles of the shoulder and chest, the strong, slender throat, the aquiline jaw, the feral smile, the bottomless, shadowed eyes and lastly, the single eyebrow cocked so high it disappeared under the unruly hair.
"Missed me?"
A strangled cry escaped him and he rolled away, scrambling upright, feet slipping on the rug beneath him. The spirit watched with an expression of disdain.
"Stop that!" was the sharp order.
But it had been too long. The boy had forgotten the terror, the isolation that the spirit had brought. There was an answering spark in his gaze that was unsettling. The ancient thief's eyes narrowed and Bakura watched with increasing alarm as he seemed to grow where he stood, bone-chilling shadows swirling from behind his slender, erect frame.
"So . . ." the word escaped his lips as a poisonous hiss, "You defy me?
"Yes," whispered, so low that even the spirit's sharp ears strained to pick it up.
A bark of laughter. "You still think you can defeat me? After all the times I've proven to you that it is impossible?"
Bakura straightened, now as erect as the spirit. For so long he had been free, free to make friends, to laugh, to feel no darkness creeping over his shoulder, tainting his dreams, to bask in the sun for hours, to scatter breadcrumbs for the birds, to eat ice-cream as he watched the wind stir the trees . . . He would not let his freedom escape so easily. This time he would not crumble.
The spirit was watching him with an unreadable expression. If he could see Bakura's internal struggle, he said nothing about it.
"What do you want?"
There was no answer and the spirit continued to stare at him, unblinking, cold and scrutinizing.
"You know I'll fight you."
The thief lowered his eyelids, considering Bakura cunningly from beneath them. "Do you even know why I am here?"
The boy sputtered in incoherence. "Of course I . . . You always . . . You think I don't . . ."
"Oh, shut up, you twit. You have no idea, do you?"
Bakura gazed at him in bewilderment, realising that there was something strange occurring. "The Millenium items . . .?"
The thief grinned, turning to face him fully and he shuddered at the hardness behind the casual humour.
"No, fool. Guess again."
A/N: I thought I would give Bakura a little more spunk than he's usually portrayed with. I feel it will make their interactions a little more interesting . . .