AN: Since I've finished Paint The Roses Red, I thought I'd give you all a brand new (short-ish, maybe only three or four chapters to be honest) chapter-fic (I did mention a fic was in progress in the last chapter of PTTR, so I'm so sorry for the delay, I do tend to put the pro in procrastinate far too often). I actually have another fic I wanna put up as well but I'm not entirely happy with it at the moment so it'll probably be up soon-ish.

This is gonna have eventual Tendershipping in it. Sweet, sweet, tendershipping. And maybe some other couples will be added as I write this story. Also it's AU and a tad depressing in some places, I think.

Anyway, that's what this is xD

Enjoy.


Disclaimer: I still don't own Yu-Gi-Oh!, the plotline is fictional, and the song lyrics and title are from Konstantine by Something Corporate (my favourite song ever).

Warnings: Slash, angst, a smidgen of violence. The rating may change as this fic is updated.


Konstantine.


1. Four-leaf Clovers


"I can't imagine all the people that you know, and the places that you go when the lights are turned down low."


Ryou's POV - that morning.

He bites his lip. Cool, padded fingertips drag across scaly skin, the barely-there muscles twitching underneath the touch, and he swallows hard, wishing in the back of his head that he felt a little bit more…alone.

He's inside, but maybe the air-conditioning is on too high (which wouldn't surprise him, really, since it's summertime), because a quick chill flies through him. He shivers, and his hands fly away from his skin, away from the bones that stick out from underneath the pallid, paper-thin flesh: hard, ugly, and knotty.

For some reason, he feels self-conscious. He's standing in a dressing room behind a locked door, with the attendant not even outside collecting clothes or keys, and yet he swallows for a second time, the bile and saliva sluggishly sliding down, sticking to his throat as his body twists with discomfort. No eyes are on him, despite the heavy, ashamed feeling in his gut, and even if he looks hard enough and thinks he can make out white shells with dark irises staring at him accusingly, it's all just his imagination. He knows it. He has this dreadful habit of making something out of nothing, of causing problems when there are none. Which, honestly, is probably why he's here on a Saturday, all alone, half-freezing in the back of a surprisingly empty dressing room.

He swallows again once he decides that he is indeed by himself, and he turns his sunken eyes back to his reflection. "Dammit," he mutters, his voice coming out raspy, groggy, like he hasn't slept for a long, long time. "So hideous."

It's sort of a vain thing to say, really; silly, almost. Calling himself, what he sees in that full-length mirror hanging on the wall of the small cubicle he's in, "hideous". It's something that a prissy sixteen-year-old girl would say as she tried on a billion skirts or dresses that cost more than two months worth of his rent, frustrated after hours upon hours of shopping and not finding just the right outfit.

It's not something a twenty-year-old boy would say.

But, alas, Ryou has the self-esteem of a rock, and it doesn't matter what he wears (or, rather, in this case, what he's not wearing), because no matter what, he thinks that his toothpick body, his big hazel eyes, and his too-girly face are always disgusting. His appearance never, ever seems to look right. No matter what he tries, he can never seem to figure out how to make himself acceptable.

"Acceptable" to himself, at least, which is sort of funny (in a pathetic way).

Maybe he stares at himself in the mirror and traces over his bones and scrunches up his nose in disgust because he's a perfectionist. His favorite high school English teacher always used to say that he obsessed over perfection too much. He would turn in draft after draft of a poem or an essay, never quite satisfied with whatever he originally wrote up. He could always spot something wrong that he just had to fix, because anything less than extraordinary, the absolute best Ryou could do, was unacceptable.

His teachers said it was crazy, that perfectionism would only drive him mad, and that he really should learn to "chill out".

Not possible.

Not for Ryou.

He thinks that maybe, some of that perfectionism has bled into his self-image, because now, Ryou hasn't been able to look at himself for three and a half years without feeling nauseated and wanting to break whatever reflective surface he's looking at into a million and one tiny, tiny pieces. He's atrocious. He's filled with flaws, riddled with mistakes. It's like the oh-so-infallible God just decided that one day, "Hey, I'll slip up while creating someone!", and that person he chose to mess up was Ryou.

The worst part of it all?

He can't fix any of it.

The boy sighs, and finally, he turns away from the mirror.

He's frustrated with himself, because when he looks into that mirror he sees nothing at all. No beauty, no life, no brown eyes, no white hair, no pale skin. He's like a vampire: no reflection whatsoever, because he's not worthy enough to have one.

"Sir, are you all right?"

The soft, mildly concerned voice rings through the air, followed by a small rap on the wooden door of his fitting room, and Ryou jumps, his heart skipping two beats. At first, his pale pink lips twist in annoyance, because, good God, that surprised him. When did the employee that had disappeared for her "lunch break" (Ryou eavesdropped on her conversation earlier) come back, all of a sudden? He almost has a right mind to turn around and start yelling at her to be more careful and not scare the hell out of customers like that. Instead, though, Ryou just closes his tired eyes and exhales, hands stopping their travels across his skin and resting on his abdomen. He takes a few seconds, counting them carefully.

1, 2, 3…

"I'm fine." Once again, his voice comes out too hard-to-hear, and his words sound rough and awkward. He scowls at the sound (though she can't see it) and clears his throat. "I'm fine," he repeats himself, trying to sound surer, more in-control. If there's one thing Ryou can't stand, it's people worrying about him. Pitying him. Whatever. He inhales, and scrunches up his nose at the too-sweet scent of the perfume they spray all over the store to trademark their items. "Just, give me a moment." A pause. "Thank you, though."

No, not really "thank you".

More like, "get the hell away."

But Ryou's too polite to say that.

There's a moment of silence from the other side of the door, and then the girl's voice comes back with a somewhat unsure but still polite "okay", and Ryou hears her light footsteps walking back down the dressing rooms' hall. He closes his eyes again, shaking his head the slightest bit.

Ryou makes his life so much more difficult than it should be.


Bakura's POV - that previous evening.

The man runs.

He runs so fast. He's not sure he's ever run this hard in his entire life.

Then again, before this moment, he's never run for his actual life, before.

His chest burns and stings, and when he can manage to swallow, the spit is thick and slides down his esophagus like acid. It burns the delicate tissue as it falls, and the sharp intakes of the air slapping against his face as he runs, breath wild, aren't helping much with the overall effect. But that pain, the pain of his burning breaths and aching, throbbing legs, is nothing compared to the absolute terror that is flying through his veins.

It's pulsing, cutting through him like knives as his feet take him farther and farther away from whatever horror that's behind him. His gaze flies back over his shoulder, staring back into the darkness of the alleyway again and again, like he's double-checking something. Making sure he's not being followed, making sure that in a few moments, he can stop, finally giving his body a rest.

And then it happens.

"Oomf!"

He is down on the ground, there is a knife to his throat, and seconds later, he is dead.

It's quiet, suddenly.

The man's footsteps no longer echo down the nasty asphalt. No more trash cans being knocked over as the person clumsily races through the area, clattering loudly and spilling its filth. No frantic, heavy breaths.

Just silence.

The knife is smooth, and when it's wiped, the silence is broken with a sick, scratchy sound as it moves against the ground. In the dim light from the streetlight that lies only a few meters ahead, waiting at the end of the alleyway, the metal shines for a moment. It is covered in thick, dripping, dark crimson.

The owner of the weapon doesn't miss a beat.

With a small breath out, the knife is carefully slid back into the pocket of the jeans, and the person stands. There's a momentary pause as the killer stares at his victim, and what should be a face of remorse and horror is only a blank slate. Blood is everywhere, dripping from the slit on the now pale throat to the asphalt, slipping into the small cracks of the stone, moving outwards and almost reaching the shoes of the murderer.

But the murderer steps back.

He shakes his head. "What a pity," he grumbles, and then, he sighs. It's shaky, and when he's done, he thrusts his hands into his jacket's pockets, stuffing them down low. "He really shouldn't have gotten involved, should he?" He's talking to himself, of course, somehow trying to justify a ruthless, inhumane act. Really, no matter how many times he does this, he always tries to put some reason behind it. And then, with another exhale, he's turning around, sauntering away from the crime scene like he didn't just slit an innocent man's throat.

No one was there to witness the killing, and the next morning, when the police finally stumble across the poor soul's body, he will be long gone. It's deep downtown, and no one but whores and drug addicts hang around on these streets, and dead bodies and blood are nothing new to them. By the time the cops figure out there's a body lying in this alleyway, there won't be a trace of him there, not a fingerprint, not a hair, not even a drop of his breath in the air the cops breathe. He's too good for that.

He leaves the body to bleed and rot for however long it will, hands still in his pockets, eyes to the stars as he walks away, whistling a light-hearted tune that he can't name.


Ryou's POV - that mid-morning.

Ryou steps out of the store, and he almost finds a relief in the crowded but somehow fresher air of the open street, a welcome change to the overwhelming, perfumed scent of the store. In his long fingers he carries his most recent purchase, in a too-big bag for what he actually bought. Despite the fact that he spent hours in the store, in that dressing room, staring at his naked form in the mirror, analyzing every bone he could see poking through his paper-thin skin, every curve of his muscles, he bought something small, and a simple, blue-striped scarf does not require the huge carrier they gave him. Worse yet, it's covered with some half-naked man, which just makes Ryou feel really, really uncomfortable.

He doesn't do well with nudity, even if it's not full.

It just reminds him of that reflection in the mirror, of the sick, ugly boy that stares back at him every time he looks into it.

Ryou shivers.

He starts walking after a few more moments, because it was starting to look weird with him just standing there outside the shop's doors, staring at people and absolutely nothing at the same time. He doesn't really have any place to go, and he just curls his fingers around the handles of the bag tighter. He passes so many people, and he sees so many faces, drinking in their features, their expressions. He wonders if any of them feel like he does, if they hate who they are as much as Ryou hates who he is. If he had to guess, he'd guess probably not.

He's a pretty messed up kid, and he doubts that anyone is like him.

The boy pushes through throngs of people, brushing and bumping shoulders, mumbling a few "excuse me's" and getting a few "sorry's" or "move's" in return. It's odd; everyone seems a bit nastier than usual, even for a Saturday. He would have expected the people to be a bit happier on the first day of the weekend, but what does he know about happiness, really? He's not exactly the picture of joy, himself.

In fact, as he moves through the crowds and crowds of shoppers, he ducks his head and averts his eyes from anyone who happens to catch his gaze, acting less-than-friendly to everyone that passes by. Ryou just does not do well with people, and so he's given up on even trying. He's the epitome of social awkwardness. He couldn't hold a polite conversation with a stranger or even an acquaintance without stuttering or wringing his hands or just making things plain uncomfortable, and it's always been like that, ever since Ryou can remember. He's only had one or two friends throughout his entire life, people he can actually speak to without hyperventilating, blushing, or making a total fool of himself.

Sometimes, it gets lonely.

In fact, Ryou feels lonely a lot, even crammed between hundreds of bodies on this busy street.

A sigh escapes his chapped lips, and the boy blinks as he hears his stomach suddenly grumble. He hates that noise. It's so sick and hollow and makes Ryou feel nauseated.

Taking a quick look at his watch, he sees that it's close to noon, but since he didn't eat breakfast that morning, it's only expected that he'd be hungry. Up ahead, Ryou can see a few resteraunts, but he doesn't stop his fast-paced steps as he gets closer.

Ryou's not going to eat.

He blows out a breath as he passes by the delicious smells and yummy buffets and menus, all of which just make his stomach growl harder, and his lips twist in distaste.

But still, he walks away, and he tells himself that the reason he didn't stop to eat was because he really doesn't have the time.


Ryou pushes open the door to his apartment with his knee, one hand still holding onto the too-large bag that holds his small purchase and the other hand handling the keys. Peering inside, he notices that his home seems empty; his roommate, Bakura, has gone off somewhere. The blinds covering the two doors that lead out to the small balcony are open, and the sunlight pours in. Everything's shining with brightness, and Ryou squints slightly, making a small noise of annoyance at the back of his throat.

He steps fully into his apartment, closing the door and tossing his keys onto the coffee table. Slipping off his shoes, coat, and hat (yes, he's wearing all of that in 75 degree weather) he takes out his scarf and throws the bag off to the side, making a mental note to throw it away as soon as possible.

His life can be so monotonous, he thinks, as he moves around his small abode, picking up a few things left out here or there. He wakes up, goes to work, maybe goes shopping or sees one of his three friends, and then goes to sleep. There's nothing that's ever exciting, nothing that's ever new. There's no love, no arguments, no fighting, no sex, no drugs. There's nothing of the sort that most of Ryou's young, college friends or acquaintances participate in or deal with.

Honestly, though, when he thinks about it, Ryou would rather not be involved with all of that, because Ryou is different. Ryou is boring. He prefers books to booze, and being by himself to being in a mass of crowded, dancing bodies in one of LA's clubs. He's OCD. He cleans everything all the time, and the only time anything is ever out of place is when messy, somewhat un-organized Bakura leaves things out. Ryou always finds himself cleaning up after his friend, and later on, he'll scold him, though his roommate obviously doesn't take it to heart. There's always more mess the next day.

But the boy doesn't mind too much, deep down. He may act frustrated or irritated on the surface, but underneath the facade, it gives him something to do when he cleans up. Plus, in a strange way, having someone else's things sprawled out everywhere instead of tucked neatly in drawers or closets like all of his own belongings are reminds Ryou that he's not totally alone. There is someone there. There's someone who doesn't find him too dry or too picky or too odd, someone who doesn't leave him. There's someone who finds some strand of worth or interest in his ways and his mind and his looks to stay and live with him, and for the past two and a half years, too.

At the thought of Bakura, Ryou can't help but let the small smile slip to his lips as he heads to the back bedrooms. The smile is fleeting, though, because Ryou doesn't like smiling. He doesn't do it often, so when he does, it feels too weird and he tries not to keep it on his face for long. Scarf in hand, he tries to clear his mind of smile-worthy thoughts and exhales, beginning the mental debate of whether or not he should get a dog. Bakura would probably be okay with it, and Ryou's always enjoyed dogs, so why not? Besides, it might give him some companionship when he felt lonely, when his roommate was out partying like he did almost every night.

He opens the door to his room, places the scarf neatly into his top drawer, and then heads back out into the hallway.

But, the problem is, Ryou thinks as his brow furrows, suddenly noticing that Bakura's door is closed (which is odd), a dog is a lot of responsibility. It's a lot of dirtiness, too, especially if Ryou gets a puppy like he really wants. He would have to get the dog trained quickly, pay for the obedience school, Ryou, because otherwise he'd go out of his mind with frustration and Ryou really doesn't want that, but obedience school is expensive and—

"What are you doing here?"

Ryou feels bad at the way that question comes out.

It comes out harsh and accusing and maybe even a little mean.

Ryou was just surprised, is all. He didn't expect to see his roommate, half-naked, jacket and jeans sprawled all along the ground in his messy bedroom (Ryou respected his Bakura's privacy and didn't go all OCD in his bedroom, at least), swaddled in a million blankets and sheets, half-asleep.

"Er, I mean, sorry. That sounded mean. I just…" Ryou sighs, blowing out a huge breath, resting his hand on the doorknob and tilting his hip, lazily leaning against the door. "I thought you went out. I didn't expect to see you still sleeping at…" he glances at his watch, "…12:30."

Bakura doesn't respond right away, probably trying to ignore him and go back to sleep, so Ryou takes this moment to glance around his room, trying to figure out if he had spent the previous evening partying. Aside from his clothes and belongings being tossed around the room carelessly (which is nothing new), the blinds are drawn, causing the entire room to be cast in a stuffy sort of darkness, so Ryou automatically guesses `hangover'. He inwardly groans. Dealing with a puking roommate and running to the store for Gatorade and setting out black coffee and Advil aren't on the top of his "Favorite Things to Do" list, but he does them anyway, for some godforsaken reason, when Bakura needs him to.

Ryou's too nice for his own good, sometimes.

"Bakura," Ryou prompts, his voice a bit sharper, trying to ignore the fact he feels a strange sort of satisfaction when his friend groans, moving about a bit in the cocoon of blankets he's enraptured in. Ryou doesn't care if he has a hangover or not; do not ignore Ryou when he's talking or trying to talk. Like smiling, he rarely ever does it, and when he does, he doesn't appreciate being brushed off. "Are you hungover?"

A frown takes hold of his face at his flatly-toned question, and he crosses his skeleton-thin arms across his bony chest, huffing a bit. He hopes the answer is `no'. "Answer me, seriously. Because, like, it's fine if you go out and party, but if you keep coming back wasted and just expect me to—"

"I'm not hungover, Ryou. Relax."

His own harsh tone is overshadowed by the grumble he gets as an answer from his friend, and Ryou blinks, trying not to take offense. Really, Ryou's so sensitive, he annoys himself. Instead of letting his hurt show, he narrows his hazel gaze and tightens his crossed arms. "Well, fine then," he replies, trying to just sound irritated, like he wants to get this exchange over as soon as possible. "What's wrong with you, then?"

Bakura inhales deeply, not replying right away, the mound of blankets covering his thin body rising with his breath. After he blows it out (loudly and over-exaggeratedly, too, Ryou notes), he finally moans, getting out all his frustration at the obviously unwanted wake-up call. Ryou waits a moment more, and then there's some shuffling of sheets. The blankets slowly slide off of the form in the bed to reveal Bakura's head sticking out from underneath, white hair disheveled and sticking up every which way, tired face pale, brown eyes glaring at his friend.

Ryou holds back a laugh.

"I just was out late, last night," Bakura finally answers, his voice groggy and sleepy. Slowly, he sits up a bit father, the blankets falling down and pooling around his lean waist, and Ryou feels a sudden heat creep up his cheeks as he sees Bakura's not wearing anything but boxers. Averting his hazel eyes, Ryou mutters,

"Well, that can't be healthy for you. And are you missing work? `Cause it's really late."

After his words, Bakura reaches up his hands and runs them over his face, letting out a loud groan that makes Ryou cringe a bit and almost, almost, feel guilty for waking him up. For a moment, his roommate just sort of wallows in his post-wake-up misery, and then finally, he lets his arms drop back to his sides with a soft `thud'. "No, I'm off today," the boy finally answers, not looking at Ryou, voice flat, and then Ryou watches as his mouth twists a bit in annoyance. "So you really didn't have to wake me up."

Bakura gives a small glare, now, in Ryou's direction, but Ryou just tries to ignore it. Shifting his weight on his long, tiny limbs, he just mutters back, "Well, sorry. It's just a nice day, all sunny and warm, like you like it. I thought maybe you'd want to…I don't know, whatever it is you do on pretty days."

With that, his roommate snaps into action. Inhaling deeply, the white-haired man throws the covers off of his body, shivering as the cool air reaches his warm skin, and he hops out of bed. Without so much as a word to Ryou, he reaches down for the clothes that lay discarded on the ground from the previous evening, until suddenly, he freezes in mid-swipe, almost as if he doesn't want to touch the jacket and pants.

Ryou's brow furrows as he waits a second or two and Bakura's mind obviously mulls over something that Ryou can't quite figure out. But, Bakura's not the type of guy to dwell on things, so as soon as he's paused, he's un-paused, not missing a beat. He reaches down the last few centimeters, grabbing his clothes and stuffing them into a messy, wrinkled wad in his fists. He tosses them off onto a pile of what Ryou presumes is a week's worth of dirty shirts and jeans, muttering, both to himself and Ryou, because he must have felt his friend's confusion, "Eh, those are so old. I've worn them for about three days. I'll just grab something else."

Ryou snorts. "Like I care what you wear," he says, trying to fake a bit of carelessness and maybe even a bit of annoyance, but Bakura just laughs weakly in response, already digging out his favorite pair of gray jeans and a t-shirt.

He and Bakura have a weird relationship.

They met two and a half years ago, when Ryou was dragged to some club by his now ex-girlfriend and Bakura was there. Ryou, being the socially inept, quiet kid he is, just stood in a corner while his fake blonde girlfriend ran off and mingled and danced with a million other guys (which, now that he thinks back on it, should have bothered Ryou more than it actually did).

Ryou remembers watching Bakura, and being amazed at how someone could be so…versatile.

Later that same evening, Bakura had walked up to him and smirked gently, holding out his hand to a wide-eyed Ryou, because he didn't actually know that people with that kind of guts existed. "Are you okay? You've been in this corner all night."

That's when it began. Ryou, the king of everything Bakura wasn't, and Bakura, epitome of everything Ryou wished he was, first met. From that day on, every cliche imaginable ensued. The two boys realized just how much they had in common, and like magnets, Bakura had this thing for Ryou's silence, and Ryou was addicted to Bakura's noise. After Ryou and said girlfriend broke up, Bakura saw how upset he was, and offered to stay with him for a while, so Ryou wouldn't feel so lonely.

"A while" turned into two years.

Yugi, Ryou's only other friend, was pretty cool with Bakura, and the two got along quite well, so there was no issue there. And usually, if something worked with Ryou, it was a miracle, so Yugi wouldn't have said anything, anyway, if it made Ryou happy to have the boy around.

Their friendship turned into a best friendship after a short time, and though they fight and rub each other the wrong way because they're like fire and ice, opposites by nature, Ryou can easily say that he feels more comfortable with Bakura than anyone else, even Yugi. So, when he and Bakura shoot small insults at each other, dripping with sarcasm and accompanied by eye-rolls, neither of them take it seriously, because they know that deep-down, they mean more to each other than anyone else in the world.

Once Bakura's fully dressed, Ryou steps aside, expecting Bakura to burst out of the doorway and race off to the kitchen for some food, but he doesn't. Instead, he pauses a moment, blinks, once again thinking of something Ryou will never know, and then, he walks to his one window and opens the blinds. The light streams in, sunbeams dancing in the air like small, shining specks of dust, and the boy inhales, staring out at the cloudless sky.

Ryou frowns.

"Bakura, are you okay?"

He's known Bakura long enough to be able to tell when something's wrong, and something is wrong.

Bakura's quiet for a moment. There's nothing but the sound of the faint air-conditioning blowing through the vents, and maybe a few cars rushing past the apartment complex on their ways to who-knows-what, but all Ryou can focus on is how Bakura's got his back to him, hands tight, obviously not sure what to say.

That scares Ryou, because Bakura is never without something to say.

"I'm fine, Ryou," Bakura replies after too many seconds of silence. His voice is calm, smooth, and Ryou feels a small breath of relief leave him, because it's almost as if Bakura, with his tone, is telling him not to worry. "I'm just tired, is all."

Ryou nods slowly. "Yeah, I'll bet. How late were you out last night?" he asks, and his eyes watch Bakura as the boy walks from the window to the closet, pulling out a pair of shoes. Bakura shrugs. Ryou continues, "Where were you?"

He's really not meaning to sound like an interrogator, or sounding pushy, accusing, but it seems he just can't help it. He cares about Bakura, a lot, and the way his best friend disappears every night for hours and hours (usually returning in the early hours of the morning, because Ryou doesn't sleep well and can hear him coming) is a bit unnerving.

Finally, Bakura blows out a big breath, and he stands up straight after tying his shoes tightly. He watches Ryou for a moment, like he's trying to read what Ryou's thinking, what Ryou's trying to figure out by asking, which, really, isn't anything, but Bakura can act more paranoid than Ryou, sometimes. "I just went downtown for a bit," he finally murmurs in reply, looking off to the side, and Ryou can tell Bakura wants to drop the subject, so Ryou does. He inhales then exhales deeply, uncrossing his arms, about to say something when Bakura looks back up at him with those eyes of his and completely cuts him quiet.

Ryou hates how Bakura can take his breath away, sometimes.

Thrusting his hands into his pockets, Bakura tilts his head a bit, analyzing Ryou again, except this time it's much less accusing and much more soft. "What do you want to do today? I feel like I haven't hung with you in forever." He laughs a little bit afterward, and the sound reaches Ryou's ears and makes his heart flutter against his ribcage. "Want to go out to lunch or something?"

Ryou squirms.

"Er, I…don't know," he says, awkwardly rubbing the back of his hair, giving a sheepish smile to his friend. "I was just downtown shopping, so I, kind of, already, ate…"

Lie.

Bakura blinks. It's as if he wasn't just upset at Ryou, tense about something Ryou doesn't understand. "What did you get?"

Ryou shifts his weight. Suddenly, his mind's flashing back to standing in that dressing room, his fingers roaming over bones and flesh, and he shivers, almost feeling the too-cold atmosphere and smelling the too-sweet perfume, again. "Nothing," he quickly brushes it off, not wanting to think about his gaze on his reflection, his sick, disgusting body in his eyes. "Just a scarf."

Bakura rolls his eyes, and he starts forward, pushing past Ryou so that he's halfway out the doorway when he stops. "God, don't you have enough scarves already? Seriously, you have a whole drawer full." A pause, and when Bakura's gaze lands on Ryou, it suddenly darkens. Ryou feels his stomach drop.

Oh, boy.

"What?" Ryou asks, feeling his heart start to pound. "What is it?" Ryou's worried. What did he do this time? Not that he's surprised that Bakura's obviously upset by something he sees when he looks at Ryou, because Ryou's always upset by something when he looks at himself, but it still makes his stomach twist and a frown come to his lips when he sees that look in Bakura's eyes.

"Nothing," Bakura finally answers, laughing weakly, and shaking his head. Once again, he's silently telling his best friend `it's okay, calm down' because just as Ryou's been around long enough to know what's wrong with his friend, Bakura's been sticking with Ryou long enough to know when something's eating at Ryou, too. "It's just…" His gaze goes back to Ryou, scanning over the boy's thin body, eyes taking in the sight carefully. "You…you just look really thin. I don't know. Maybe I'm imagining things. But, whatever. We can go to the bowling alley or something, because I feel like bowling."

Ryou feels a wave of relief wash through his veins, and the heavy, sick feeling in his gut from before leaves. He feels like he can breathe again. "All right," he agrees with a small laugh, "That sounds fun, actually. Maybe we could get Yugi or someone to come, too."

Bakura nods.

Ryou waits.

His brow furrows when nothing else happens.

Usually, at this point, after plans have been made for the day, Bakura saunters off down the hallway, leaving Ryou in the dust. He goes scrounging around in the kitchen, looking for Fruit Loops and complaining when Ryou tells him he ate the last of them this week, and then he settles on a Pop-Tart instead.

But that doesn't happen.

Bakura keeps watching him with his eyes, and Bakura's eyes are sharp and dark. Ryou squirms, shrinking into himself the slightest bit, feeling like the look is cutting holes into his skin. Finally, Bakura reaches out, and he places a warm hand on his best friend's shoulder, squeezing gently.

"Ryou, you know that I'm here, right?"

His voice, despite his hard, searching gaze moments before, is gentle and warm. Ryou, who's quite taken aback and really can't think of anything else to say, finally answers, "Of course I do."

Bakura blinks, almost like he doesn't believe him.

Ryou swallows hard, and wishes that Bakura did.

Finally, his best friend sighs, and he drops his hand away from Ryou's shoulder, turning and finally moving down the hallway. He moves slowly, steady, and before he leaves he assures,

"I'm here if you ever want to talk about anything. Don't forget that."

Ryou watches him disappear around the corner, and he feels two feet tall.


The next chapter should be up within the next week or so, but, y'know, school may interfere with that plan. It'll be up as soon as possible, at any rate.

Reviews are greatly appreciated, thankyou muchly =)