Touch
by NitrogenFixation
Dry shouts pierce my broken heart...
He dreamed of fire, of burning, of screams echoing off oppressive, heavy walls.
It didn't bother him; it didn't affect him anymore. It was a scene he'd watched over and over, unable to close his eyes to it, every time he slept. Some would call it a nightmare, rewatching your worst memory, which seemed to be in a loop; no beginning, no end, only flames. Only flames and the stench of blood and burning flesh and heavy smoke and destruction and death and blood -
Some would call it a nightmare. He knew what it was - it was haunting faces, trailing at his heels, reminding him of his sole purpose.
Destroy. Avenge.
Only his sense of hearing seemed to work, at first - like every time this world faded into existence, before the spirits would come, skin still rotting and melting on their bones from some invisible fire, flesh steadily drying out; they would come, if only in his mind's eye, and he'd believe he could see them and they would grasp at him and scream at him and whisper taunts until he finally opened his eyes to the next layer of reality, and it would repeat.
Again. Again. Again.
But he was used to it.
Slowly, scorching heat registered in his mind, and only then did survival instinct activate. He opened his eyes.
White-hot fire surrounded him, not seeming to feed off of anything - like usual. Deep black shadows slithered along the ground under him, breathed silent laughter on the fire; mists of darkness snaked through the air, carried on the breeze, curling and twining with the lashing tails and whips of fire, just barely apart. Larger shadows dashed through the flames, the thousands of snakelike tongues lapping tauntingly at their skin - the walking dead, eternally trying to escape, and they would come for him soon. Screams of pain, of burning, echoed back at him, and a smile twisted its way onto its face, the same way the shadows twisted and writhed at his fingertips, the same way the flames reared up and lashed out.
He felt amusement at the chaos that unfolded before his eyes.
It was the only thing he could think to feel.
He felt the searing heat press closer, the smoke forcing its way into his lungs - suddenly the world solidified -
What?
Something had changed. Shifted.
He cast away the confusion before it could swell up in him and assessed his surroundings. Lashing, dancing flames swirled around him - but they were unfamiliar, threateningly hovering over him, and no shadows danced with them, protected him. His body shuddered, and slowly, he realized he was on his side, and he knew he needed to get out.
Out. Out of what? What is this?
Almost automatically, his hands felt for the opening that ought to be beside his head - as if the hands weren't his own, as if he were trapped in a memory, for he could do nothing to stop them, nor steady his hastened, uneven, panicky breathing, nor stop his body from trembling -
He reached out into the open, clean air, not hot and sticky and oppressive the way the air in his lungs felt. He reached, grabbed the nearest thing he could, and clawed himself out, his body weak with exhaustion and suffocation in the smothering smoke. He pulled himself out of the horrible heat, and as soon as he felt the icy wind in his face he sucked in the fresh air.
He heard sobbing behind him, and recognition sparked - and suddenly there was an overwhelming sense of horror churning under his skin. His stomach roiled, and his body felt cold but he was sweating -
He shuddered, sneered, and pressed away the emotion, but it merely wrapped itself around his mind, like water, and he couldn't get away, he was going to drown, stop it, I need to breathe. He struggled to get his lower half out of the flipped vehicle, and suddenly he remembered - but the memories were distant, hazy, like they weren't meant for him at all -
The foggy windows, the swerving drunk driver, the sudden glare ice under the wheels.
The perfect storm.
He was trembling, and it had nothing to do with the cold - his breathing was shaky and hitching in his throat, his eyes wide with shock.
Amane, Mom...no...not again...
His hikari's voice struck him and some thin string holding him together snapped. A sense of grief burst out in his chest, and he half-coughed, half-sobbed on the abrupt pressure in his throat. His eyes were dry, his stomach turning as the scent of burning flesh reached him, and he felt bile rise in his throat. His stomach clenched as he vomited, his body convulsing on the cold ground with the searing heat at his back and the bitter taste of guilt and unadulterated, surmounting sorrow. He coughed, and his stomach churned once more; all he could do was dry heave.
Why...?
The thought was his own, now; soft, dazed, confused. His head swam, floating in a hazy mist of ravaging sorrow, choking grief and guilt and longing, it wasn't fair, and all he could do was wonder why he felt such things.
Why?
The yell of grief was overwhelming; it pressed out of his mind, abrupt and forceful and intense, and he felt utter aloneness forcing its way out of his chest, so potent and powerful that his ribcage felt as if it were being dislodged, bone by bone, as the sheer pressure expanded. His lungs were empty as he choked and sobbed but his throat felt tight, like someone was squeezing it just so -
Yadonushi...stop...
He couldn't bear it. He couldn't bear the demons that disjointed his bones, pulled tendons from them; couldn't bear the weight of the ocean of pain slowly crushing him. The utter agony forced a rasping wail out of his mouth, but it wasn't his own.
Not again! They're gone! No...no, no-
Yadonushi!
The coherent words ceased as his perception of his senses receded into darkness; instead, only piercing wails of raw agony echoed around his shock-stilled mind, unable to comprehend what had happened - unwilling.
But his hikari. His hikari had been through it before; knew what to expect. Knew it was real. Couldn't escape it in the shock -
Yadonushi...it's only a dream...
But he was lying and his mouth tasted bitter for it. His other couldn't hear him; he wished in the name of Osiris that he couldn't hear his other. It left deep gouges in his psyche, hearing the shouts and cries of raw agony.
Stop...I can't...
His other sobbed and he felt his throat clench and his eyes burn from the smoke.
I can't...I don't...
A shadow forced its gnarled, twisted hand down his throat and clenched his thudding heart in its talons.
I don't want...
The emotion surged around the thought, unheeding, but he almost couldn't hear the rush of agony as he drifted in its midst, tortured.
...to feel.
Darkness swallowed him, but the clawed hands never let go of his heart.
He opened his eyes.
Wicked shadows were twisted and twined on the walls, and they danced on the ceiling when unnatural lights, characteristically cold, shined through the windows. The air around him was icy but he felt a thin sheen of sweat on his death-pale skin. His breaths came in shaky, uneven gasps, his jaw shaking and eyes dull and wide despite himself.
A moment passed, and his eyes focused; his cheeks felt warm but rapidly cooling, like he'd just splashed water on them. His lips felt dry and sticky, and there was a strange, cottony feeling in his mouth.
His breathing hitched and his stomach was churning, his heart beating softly and unevenly. His chest clenched and someone was gripping his throat -
He rolled over just in time to grab the plastic trash can by his bed and vomit what little he'd eaten into it. He choked for a moment, dry heaving as the acrid scent and bitter taste overrode his senses. After a moment, he stopped himself and set the trashcan as far as he could reach. The fresher air calmed his stomach and he lay back down slowly, his mind thrumming and swimming in confusion.
Y-...Yam...i...
He could almost feel the trembling whisper of his hikari, his voice fading and distant but the only thing he could hear. Where irritation ought to swell, he felt only shock; where annoyance once lingered, there was but aching.
Yadonushi.
His tone was calm. Unfeeling. Strong.
His hikari sobbed and he broke.
Hikari. The strength was gone, replaced with but a cracked whisper. He felt his other's pain and fear leave unhealing scars on his unfeeling soul in their wake.
But oh, did it hurt.
He stood up, feeling his other's exhaustion not mentally but physically, and stared at the dark mirror on the wall. Cold, unfeeling eyes stared back, piercing crimson in the silver-toned night. They held no feeling. They held no light. Even the burning hatred that usually set the scarlet-toned brown ablaze was dim and distant.
Yet the strain and ache pulsed like a heartbeat in them, something he'd never seen when he stared into that mirror.
For the first time, his eyes were alive, writhing with pain not his own and agony set deeper than any hate he'd ever known.
Why...?
But hate stemmed from pain, and it was the only way he knew to feel.
His hikari wasn't him.
His shoulders sagged under a heavy burden of memories and unnecessary guilt, a burden he had no choice but to carry - to bear up under the pain that didn't belong to him, but in so many ways it did.
His eyes closed and the agony washed over him again, trailing deep-scoring talons through his mind.
Not heart. Never heart. He wouldn't dare feel it. Emotion was weak. Emotion meant nothing. This emotion wasn't, would never be, his own.
But...it was enough.
...I want to see your world.
Title: This was originally supposed to include something that I couldn't quite fit into this and still have it flow - actually, the entire piece was based around a thought that never made it in. The title and part of the summary are remnants of that thought. That's why I put "Oneshot - I think" in the summary, because these things tend to write themselves and sometimes that idea will hijack my brain and force me to write it, whether it's good or not.
Yadonushi: Japanese. "Landlord." Bakura addresses Ryou as this.
Hikari: Japanese. "Light." Bakura sometimes refers to Ryou as this in fanfiction - I'm not sure if it's canon.
Yami: Japanese. "Darkness" - alternatively and more commonly, "dark," so "Yami no Bakura" means "Dark Bakura" or "Bakura of Darkness." Ryou sometimes refers to Bakura as this in fanfiction. Pretty sure it's not canon. In this context, doesn't refer to Yami no Yuugi (the Pharaoh).
Osiris: In this case, refers to the actual Egyptian god, not the card. Osiris is the king of Duat, the "gentle, fertile land in which the righteous dead lived." He is the father of Horus and Anubis.
Beginning/Ending Quotes: The rough translation of two lines from Kawaita Sakebi (A Shout of Thirst) by Field of View, the opening theme for season 0 and one of my favorite songs. The more direct translation isn't nearly so poetic, and I prefer the sub translation anyway. I thought it was fitting.
A/N: I...actually don't have excessive notes for this, save for the definitions thing above. I'll happily discuss the characters if you thought there was OOCness - and in fact, my email's on my profile if any anonymous users feel so inclined. I enjoyed writing it (I would also enjoy discussing it) and I hope you enjoyed reading it.
I'm on a bit of a kick with these two. That'll probably end when I get around to working more on Awakening. Then again, maybe not.
Review, please!
- Nitro