Author note: I wrote this on a whim. It's how I'd like to imagine Bakura's return after losing to Yami Marik during Battle City. There's no actual mention of what transpired during or immediately following that particular duel. And as of right now, there are no lemons. There's a hint of tendershipping fluff, but that's about it so far. I haven't decided whether to continue the story past the second chapter, or if it's sufficient as is. So please, read and review and share your opinions on that. Also, as I said, written on a whim, so I basically Seto Freaking Kaiba'd some bits because screw the rules, I have money. I don't really have money, but screw the rules anyway. So yeah, rated M for a bit of language, just to be safe. That should pretty much cover it, I think.
It was dark. Had it always been this dark? Sure, shadow games had a certain darkness to them; but this was a different kind of dark. It was the all-consuming, can't-see-your-hand-in-front-of-your-face kind of dark here. He could hear voices, faint and unintelligible. Were they coming for him? Or were they also souls that had found themselves trapped in the black expanse of never ending nothingness?
How long had he been here? A day? A week? A year? There was no way to know for sure. Time was meaningless. He was dead. He'd been sent back to the shadows from whence he came. It didn't occur to him to be scared, however; hadn't he always been a part of the shadows?
So instead, he opted to sit and think. His memories were intact, so that was a bonus. He had to think of a way to get out of here and back to the ring and his doormat of a host. Sure, the kid was scrawny and timid, but just made it easier for him to control the boy and bend him to his will.
As he sat in the solitude of the blackness around him, he found that he could force a little bit of light from the palm of his hand. Even at their darkest, the shadows couldn't exist without a hint of light. He could make out the outlines of faces and bodies of almost-ghosts; or were they demons? It didn't matter. The faces swam and contorted, seeming to wail as they past by him, their arms and fingers reaching for him but dissipating into mist before making contact.
He watched the spectacle before him a bit longer, finally growing bored with the endless sea of tortured souls. Soon his eyelids felt heavy and, try as he might, he couldn't fight the urge to sleep.
He wasn't sure how long he had slept; it didn't provide him with any more energy. The shadows seemed to drain the strength from every limb in his body. Did he even have a body? Arms, legs, hands, fingers, torso, face; it all felt like it was there. But it could've easily been his mind trying to cope with the fact that he no longer existed in the human world, for the second time.
Lost in the process of taking inventory of himself, he didn't even notice the bright, almost blinding, light that suddenly erupted through the pitch black of this particular section of hell. He also failed to see the hand reaching toward him, straining to touch him. It wasn't until he heard a voice, a painfully familiar voice, cry out his name in desperation, that he finally turned to look behind him.
Everything he thought he knew about life and the afterlife and the abilities of mere mortals crumbled before his eyes as a milky white hand attached to an equally pale arm presented itself to him, while that same voice urged him to grab on. A flash of white light exploded across his vision and he hit the ground with a thud. He tried to blink the spots from his eyes before glancing around to see that he was...in the bathroom? What the hell? He felt something squirm beneath him, and as he looked down, he found the source of the voice.