A/N: Challenge: "The world is ending, and two characters share a quiet moment during a lull in the storm." I ended up using Malik and Bakura, since they're my favorite characters and I hardly ever do anything from Bakura's POV. Try it. It's fun. :D

Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh!, and I own no huge-ass boats. So sad. :(

We're on the boat. For some god-awful reason, we're on the boat.

Drink in hand, cigarette at your lips, you lean over the edge of the railing, blowing smoke down at the water until I think that you're going to fall off.

I grab you by the belt and pull you back. You look at me and grin. "This'll be ours," you say, because you've been consuming alcohol all night and you obviously don't give a fuck anymore.

I snort, but let you have your moment. For all I know, you'll be dead by tomorrow, so I suppose I can give you this. For now.

Your eyes keep drifting down to the water. They peer at your reflection almost quizzically, and I wonder what it is you see besides a boy in jeans and a cut-off t-shirt. Your blonde hair falls over your face for just a moment, and I think of the sand.

I think of the sand, and I think of the sun, the heat, and the burning light that used to slide under the doors and creep into the darkest corners. At night, there were no shadows. Only darkness and the sweet taste of fear-tainted victory.

Not like here. Here, everything is cool, in shades of blue and green and violate. We're shrouded in the mist that floats off from the bay, and the night tastes hollow.

I don't like it. In fact, I hate it. The world wraps its damp chill around me like a cloak I can't shove off. It's heavy and cumbersome. I resist the urge to run my hands down my arms and push it away, even though it feels like the whole ocean is trying to condense itself on my skin, sinking in with cold finality.

When I win, it will never be cold again. I'll see to that.

I know for a fact that you don't mind the cold, but you can't stand the damp. The look in your eyes when you talk about the tomb is enough to assure me of that.

You turn around and rest your elbows on the railing, trading your view of the water for one of the sky.

"I used to wonder about stars," you say, tilting your head back. "There was this hole in the ceiling near the center of the tomb, and I could see a little sliver of sky if it wasn't too cloudy." You laugh, cold and harsh. I see the memories in your eyes. You're old for your age.

Then again, so am I.

"It's stupid, but I used to love the way they shone. They kept me safe." You pause, then look at me and grin again. "What about you? You ever used to go star gazing in Ancient Egyptian Wonderland?"

I turn away and scowl up at the sky. The stars blink back uninterestedly, dulled by the modernity of twenty-first century lights. "No. I was too busy running for my life the majority of the time, thank you very much. It wasn't exactly a picnic." But I remember the sky. Black velvet nothingness, as far as the eye could see. None of this watered down, airplane-littered gray.

I wish I could turn off all these damn lights. You always have them too bright.

I feel your hand rest itself gently on my arm. The modern world has no concept of personal space. I glare at you. It doesn't work. It never works. Your hand stays where it is.

"We're gonna win," you say. Your gaze is unfocused, and your words are too sincere, so I expect you must be drunk. There's none of the mocking, anger, or confidence that you usually wear like a mask. There's just a sixteen-year-old kid with delusions of grandeur and revenge that he's not even sure he wants.

I can't relate to you, because I know what I want. It makes me feel so bloody ancient, it's almost funny. Think of the age gap, and try not to laugh.

"We're gonna win," you say again. You look so earnest, so sure, and I wonder how you do it.

I can't. Not anymore. It's five-thousand years too late.

I grab you by the waist and pull you in. You taste like alcohol and summer and sharpness, and you smile against my lips.

I'll take it all from you, one day, but for now I think I might have to share as you relax in my arms.

I can let you have this, and I can keep it for myself, all at the same time.

You toss the cigarette over the side of the boat. The water swallows it down, and we go inside.

The stars are still too dull, and the world is still too bright, but you and I still find ways to hide under the thinning cover of night. Tomorrow is almost today, and we'll continue to fight.

Drink in hand, cigarette at your lips. This is how we live.

Just one more night under the broken stars, waiting on the gods-damned boat.