The first touch to a child's mind burns.
He found out the hard way, puzzling over the blistering heat. His prison still carried him, tied up somehow within the very framework. To escape, he needed form. A form meant a body. Body linked with mind. The mind –
The second touch to a child's mind scalds.
Steam caught his hand when he reached out, looking for whoever it was that now possessed his soul. Who he was now. The water vapor condensed on previously burned skin, cooling enough so it was visible, but still at the point of boiling, peeling the skin away on his hands, even as he reached out again, searching for a hold.
The third touch to a child's mind is agony.
Heat and chill assaulted him in rotating bouts; battling back and forth for whatever dominance was to be had. He watched his hands as the skin alternately blistered and cracked from heat or changed color from cold. Skin hung in lank cords, revealing twitching muscle fibers that seized up even as he watched them, staring dispassionately. So this was what happened…
The fourth touch to a child's mind never happens:
Curled up in the recesses of his prison, he waited, watching. Always watching, awaiting the call to freedom. Eventually it came. It always did.
He has taken over…
Finally, after millennia of waiting, he was free. This new body, this freedom – it was intoxicating. A pulse. The last time he'd had a pulse was so far away in memory that the ancient kings could not remember, for even the son of the gods had not yet touched foot to earth then. He took his first hesitant steps, remembering so slowly what being alive felt like after an eternity of half-life. Truly alive.
Or he is dead.
The whistle was the only indication something was coming, too fast to stop.
Author's Note: Hope you liked! I don't do nearly enough with Bakura and Ryou.