Loosely based on a true-ish story. Many moons ago and all. Blood drives are fun. :P Just felt like tossing a one-shot out there. Because I haven't posted much this summer. My bad. Eheh. ^^;
…
The rain is loud and insistent against the wind-battered fabric of Ryou's umbrella, feeding the sidewalk streams with large, gulping drops. He squints through their gloom at the clean brick building a few yards away, at the bold banner spread out before its double glass doors, leaking poster paint into colorful puddles at his feet. His eyes narrow, refocus on his forearm, weighing the scattering of thin scars beneath the greenish cast of the umbrella.
"I'm going to get deferred," he says, toying with his donor card. "They're going to think I'm a cutter."
You are a cutter, says the voice, sulky with the damp chill of April and curled like a cat at the back of his mind. Maybe you should've thought of that before you went for the scissors again.
"I wasn't talking to you," Ryou says, responding idly nonetheless. "I forgot about the forearm evaluation. I think it's just to check for drug use." Self-consciously, he tugs his jacket sleeve down to his wrist, shifts the umbrella from one hand to the other. The card slips through his fingers, catching against his raincoat before plopping into a puddle. Ryou sighs and bends to retrieve it. "I don't do drugs. And I'm not a cutter."
Bakura laughs, low and derisive. No, you just cut yourself. You can imagine how one might make the mistake, however.
"I could say that they're cat scratches. They look a bit like cat scratches."
They're too even. You line them up too well to pass for accidental.
"Damn," Ryou says, staring at the plastic between his fingers. Name and blood type followed by his donor id, a series of numbers and letters running along the bottom of the bar code. There is no reason he should be deferred today. His blood is fine; he's been living on it for almost twenty years now, with no problems to think of save a few unrelated trips to the hospital. And it isn't as though he's an idiot about the scissors; just a few shallow slices will do it, cleaned out with peroxide afterward. He's not a moron, and he's not a cutter. It's really more something of an experiment.
Hah, says Bakura, bristling in the mist. It's pointless and stupid. You just like the pain. You like the blood. Same idiot reason you insist on this nonsense.
Ryou can't argue that, though he supposes others could; for some reason blood donation is good while cutting is bad, though both are equally therapeutic. It likely has something to do with the act of saving a life not his own, the whole self-sacrifice bit, which he is not entirely unfamiliar with, to be honest. Still, though, it all comes down to how visible the scars are against his pale skin…
Are we going inside or not?
He sighs in the direction of the damp, irritable presence within his own head, which is bored already but too hydrophobic to do anything more than talk. Ryou makes his decision on impulse, twirling the card between his fingers.
"Yes, we're going. Do try to behave yourself."
To you as well, says Bakura, and they step forward through the puddles and past the double doors.