A/N: ...The random Bakura oneshots with very little connection to Bakura's real personality quite amuse me, can you tell? DX Again, girl purposely left unnamed and undescribed. You tell me who you think she is. ;p
Bakura (C) Kazuki Takahashi
-o-
He could understand why she liked to stand in the rain.
After all, his past life had been spent in the desert, where water was scarce and rain scarcer. Cool, refreshing life dancing down from the sky on a semi-regular basis was a wonder her would never fail to appreciate.
That explained what drew his gaze to the rain-streaked glass in the midst of storm or drizzle. It had nothing to do with her.
In fact, her persistent obstruction of his view irritated him endlessly whenever it rained. When his dark eyes trailed over her, it was because he plotted her death in those moments; he did not watch the way the rain slid across her skin, or jeweled her silky hair, merely imagined the crimson of her life washing away with the tears of the sky.
Somehow, though, the image of blood mingling with rain in blossoming pools of scarlet on the street always changed to another one, where his fingers touched her cheek for a different reason, one without pain. One that left a fist clenched around his heart.
The heart he didn't have. The heart twisted and destroyed by rage and betrayal in his past life's youth.
The heart blackened and burned and betrayed and replenished by the coursing rain.
No.
No salvation lurked for him here in the abundance of life, especially not in this cold grey city. Though he hid it, this prison of buildings stifled him, made him long for the brilliant, unrelenting expanse of the desert.
Of course, he'd never wanted salvation, so in the long run, it didn't make much difference.
Except when he tore his dark eyes from her white innocence. Then he felt a twinge, a vague sensation inside that represented the slightest wish to save his soul.
But not before he'd exacted his revenge.
It was a foolish goal, anyway; his soul was too far gone. He was happy with his place in hell.
Alone.
As alone as she stood, drinking in the cool grey dance of water.
When he reflected on it, it was a polluted waltz, the rain tainted and impure. The water in the desert may have been scarce, but at least it was clear and clean.
Like her. The shining innocence, the perfect contrast to this dull grey city.
Perhaps she belonged beneath the blazing sun of the desert. She'd complement the light, complete it, and stand beside him, and she wouldn't need the rain to dance across her skin or linger on her lips, because she'd have him.
(He always wondered how his thoughts turned from pain to pleasure, from her death to her life. Usually, he ended up blaming it on his host's influence, his little lie to himself. His only lie.)
He had to look closely at her to see it, to see the loneliness that tethered her gaze to the sky. But there was love reflected there as well, a shining adoration for the rain.
And when she stood beside him—and she would—he would face the gates of Hell with open contempt.