AN: This chapter's gonna have a little more angst. BUT it also has some tendershipping fluff in it! And bowling!Bakura. AND PUZZLESHIPPING. Weeeeeew~
Italics = flashback.
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
Warnings: Slash, angst, violence, ANGST.
Konstantine
2. You're restless
it's not hard to dream; you'll always be my konstantine, they'll never hurt you like i do.
Bakura doesn't mind Yugi.
Really, he doesn't.
He thinks Yugi is a nice guy, almost sickeningly nice, in fact. He's always willing to talk and offer advice, always level-headed, continually offering a smile or some sort of understanding, no matter what the situation. He could be in the angriest, most frustrated mood, but the minute you came to Yugi with a problem, his face would melt into that angelic grin and he'd stuff whatever was bugging him deep down wherever he stuffed and stored all his feelings (because bottling up emotions never seemed to backfire on Yugi like it backfired on Bakura). Then, he'd pull you into a soft hug and offer to sit down and chat for however long it took to help you feel better, be it minutes or hours.
The warmth and genuine care that radiated off of Yugi made Bakura want to puke, sometimes. It seemed as though every second you were around Yugi, the minute you came within twenty feet of him, the lights shone a little brighter and everyone seemed a little happier, and Bakura swears he might have heard a "Hallelujah" chorus strike up once or twice in the background noise, too.
Though, despite the gut-wrenching feeling the white-haired man usually got when he was with Yugi, Bakura oddly didn't mind him. Perhaps it was because he was so opposite of himself; sure, Bakura loved to talk (oh, no doubt about that), but it was never to help people. Bakura was far too selfish to want to lend a hand to anybody else unless it somehow benefited him in the end. Yugi's true-blue selflessness fascinated Bakura; he found himself watching the boy and marveling at the way he was so willing to give himself to others with no promise of anything in return. In fact, it was sort of comical to him, and several times, Yugi had caught him chuckling at what, to the short boy, had been a simple, everyday act, and random bouts of seemingly un-provoked laughter are always the hardest to explain.
Bakura also guesses that somehow, Yugi's ridiculously angelic personality is what has made Ryou stick to him like glue for all these years.
Ryou is a sad kid.
If someone asked him to, that would be the best way Bakura could describe Ryou: sad. Sure, Ryou has his moments of happiness, smiles, and laughter, but most of the time, he's staring quietly off into space, his hazel eyes glazed over, and when asked what he's thinking about, he stays away from whatever was on his mind just a few seconds before like it was the Plague. Whatever Ryou's been through, Bakura's concluded, he can't seem to stop remembering, even though he tries his hardest to forget. It's a nasty paradox his poor friend is stuck in, and sometimes, Bakura really wishes he could get him out.
But since Bakura can't ever seem to, Yugi just might be the one way Ryou can occasionally break free.
Bakura sees how Ryou beams whenever Yugi's around, how his shoulders relax and he can finally breathe. He sees how excited Ryou always sounds at the prospect of Yugi coming anywhere with them, and how sometimes Ryou will just leave the apartment in the middle of the afternoon and drive off to the other boy's house.
Bakura tries not to feel jealous; really, he does. He feels like he should understand it more than he seems to, accept it more than he seems to, but understanding and acceptance are harder than he would like them to be. The man has this weird feeling, habit with Ryou; he tries his hardest to make Ryou feel loved, protected. He has no idea why. Don't ever ask him to explain it. There was a certain protectiveness that he felt for Ryou: almost a "mother hen" kind of feeling (but not really, because that just sounds kind of creepy). Whenever Ryou's feeling down, Bakura always wishes he was the one the other boy went to for comfort, for a hug, for a talk. It isn't like he doesn't make it clear he's there if Ryou needs it. In fact, quite the opposite. And sure, to be fair, Ryou does go to Bakura for a smile or some encouraging words, but not like he goes to Yugi; just, Ryou isn't the type to open up easily. In fact, Bakura feels like the boy never fully opens up to himself, let alone someone else. Yugi is one of those rare souls who Ryou ever really fully gives himself over to, and frankly it drives Bakura crazy.
Crash!
The bright red bowling ball rolls smoothly, quickly down the polished, wooden lane, and Bakura smirks as he puts his hands on his hips, watching the pins fly. "Hmm," he hums in self-satisfaction, quickly spinning on his feet, to cock an eyebrow at Yugi. Bakura is a damn good bowler when he wants to be; his tenacity translates very well to the bowling alley, and he's actually pretty competitive (he's had a brutal bowling rivalry with Yugi going on for at least a year, now). He jumps around on the lane, radiating what seems to be endless confidence, even while holding a 12-pound ball, and when he throws, he throws hard.
Moving smoothly, a strange, always fluid sort of grace coming from him, the twenty-year-old passes by Yugi, who stands for his turn at the front of the lane. Rubbing his hands together, quickly, Bakura saunters over to where Ryou sits in one of the white, shiny, plastic chairs, skinny arms wrapped around himself, looking around at everything like it's about to gobble him up. Plopping down in a seat next to his best friend, Bakura swings his arm around the back of the chair, watching Yugi for a few moments before gazing at Ryou. When Ryou doesn't really do much in reply, only smile the slightest bit, Bakura moves his own eyes back toward the front of the bowling alley. He sighs, gently, almost inaudibly, so as not to upset anyone. But, really, he is a bit upset himself, because he knows Ryou's in one of his "moods" where he's about as quiet as the grave, wants to do nothing but crawl into his bed at home and read a book, and if he wants to talk to anyone, it's Yugi.
As usual.
It's really amazing how his best friend can just change so quickly, one minute being fairly decent, excited about going bowling with his friends, and the next quiet, huddled into himself, looking like he wishes he were anywhere but here. Bakura just can't win, sometimes, no matter how hard he tries to keep a smile on that boy's pretty little face.
Bakura turns his gaze up, watching the ceiling, the bright, fluorescent lights.
He understands when Ryou gets like this; hell, he gets like this, too, falling into random, probably frustrating moods where he's all cold and distant.
But, at least he has a good reason.
Suddenly, Bakura swallows, feeling uneasiness well in his gut, and he fidgets around in the seat.
He doesn't want to think about "his reasons," right now.
Turning, he reaches over, and he grabs his nachos, resting near him on the small wall that separates the three boys' bowling lane from the other person's next to them. Taking a tortilla chip and scooping up a load of warm, cheesy sauce onto the crunchy, salty surface, he plops the snack into his mouth.
He gives a small look to Ryou out of the corner of his eye as he puts his nachos back; he would offer to share, but, hey, he knows better.
Yugi rubs his hands on his dark blue jeans once before standing. Shuffling up to the line of shiny, colorful bowling balls that sits right behind the lane, Yugi reaches down and grabs his own: a bright purple one. Hooking his fingers into the small holes, he gives Bakura a smile as he passes by, and Bakura just smirks right back, hands still resting on his hips, eyebrow still cocked, still oozing his never-faltering air of confidence and challenge.
Yugi returns the feelings that Bakura seems to feel for him: the friendship, the like, the admiration of personality, and of course, he's forever grateful to the white-haired man for being Ryou's best friend. Though, to be completely honest, Bakura can get a bit…overwhelming. The man's intensity is non-stop; Yugi's been dealing with it, encountering it, for a good two years, now. At first, he found it amusing, maybe even inspiring. After a point, though, maybe as it is with every person on God's green earth, the initial beauty, the initial fascination, faded away. Now, Yugi still likes Bakura, but there's this…fear that Yugi feels, now that he's gotten to know Bakura better, now that he's gotten to hear more from Ryou about Bakura.
Ryou tells him about how Bakura just disappears from the apartment sometimes, not coming back until four in the morning. Ryou tells Yugi about how Bakura goes off into bouts of anger and frustration, seemingly at nothing, just yelling and arguing with his roommate, or getting quiet, cold, and distant. Ryou tells Yugi about how sometimes, when Ryou goes into Bakura's room alone, to pick up dirty clothes or borrow his iPod or something along those lines, the minute Bakura finds out, he flips, like he's hiding something in there he doesn't ever want Ryou to find, like there are piles of bodies or drugs or something equally as horrible stashed in the shadows that he's worried will come tumbling out.
Yugi usually just shrugs and says that "we've all got our skeletons in our closets, Ryou."
And that usually makes Ryou stay quiet for a good few hours.
But, truly, deep-down, it worries Yugi to hear all that he does about Bakura. He doesn't show it, for fear of agitating Ryou (who really doesn't need to be anymore agitated than he already is) or starting something with Bakura, who's really not the type to mess with. He won't give an argument or a problem up until either A) he's had his way or B) …well, there is no B, usually. Bakura likes to get what he wants.
The thing is, though, Yugi doesn't know what Bakura wants; he doesn't know why Bakura acts the way he does, why he doesn't like to discuss his job, his past, or his family (that he, as far as Yugi knows, never sees),why suddenly, someone can get so somber, can be so miserable, so quiet, so randomly. He doesn't get it; he doesn't trust it. He doesn't like the idea of Ryou living with that, being exposed to that, especially considering Ryou's past. As far as Yugi is concerned, Ryou doesn't need anything else troubling him that much.
Plus, Yugi knows that his relationship with Bakura isn't as nice as it seems on the surface. He knows there's this underlying jealousy, almost, that's present between them, or, rather, present on Bakura's side. Yugi knows what it (or rather, who) the tense feelings are over, too: Ryou. Yugi's fine with sharing Ryou, even relinquishing the tile of "best friend" over to Bakura; he knows that no matter what, Ryou and he will have some sort of relationship over the years. He doesn't have this fear of losing Ryou to someone else that Bakura seems to have, so he easily gives Bakura and Ryou space; he doesn't even really come around to visit as much as he could or, honestly, as much as he'd like to, because Bakura is just…very possessive. That upsets Yugi even more, added to everything he's already on edge with the other boy. He just doesn't know what to think of Bakura, and for some reason he himself, seems to be feeling that ambivalence more than ever.
But he plays along, smoothly riding out Bakura's ups and downs, doing what he needs to do and keeping a close eye on Ryou. He puts up with the other boy's shenanigans, his personality: little things like this stupid bowling competition that Bakura seems to be taking far more seriously than Yugi. And usually, things are okay between the three friends, but he's always particularly wary, for Ryou's sake. Yugi's a smart kid, and he's known Ryou long enough so that he can read his Ryou all too well; Ryou has feelings for Bakura, even if he won't ever fully admit it to himself, let alone anyone else. Yugi will just wait, though, and he'll be there, right by Ryou's side, ready for whatever happens, be it joy or picking up the pieces of a his friend's heart.
Swinging his arm back, quick and fast, Yugi lets the ball slip from his fingers. It rolls smoothly down the lane, the dark purple reflection bouncing off of the bright wooden panes as it moves, and Yugi bites his lower lip, waiting in anticipation. Really, like with most things in life, they are what you make of them, and Yugi tries to make things like this fun. Smirking slightly, the boy watches as the ball crashes into the red and white bowling pins, sending all but one flying. He lets out a huge, somewhat exaggeratedly-disappointed, "aww!" and shrugs. "Too bad!" he laments, turning to his companions, and Bakura smirks triumphantely, big brown eyes glowing, and Ryou just gives him a soft, half-baked smile.
Yugi moves back to his spot, the empty chair on Ryou's other side, but he doesn't sit right away; something suddenly flashes on the television screen right above their lane that was keeping track of the score for the past two games: the words "GAME OVER." Yugi looks at the final score: next to Bakura's name it reads 233, next to his own 205, and next to Ryou, 157. "You won," Yugi admits defeat, honestly only feeling slightly upset by the fact he's lost to the white-haired man. As aforementioned, he doesn't take these games or rivalries as seriously as Bakura seems to. He shrugs a second time, smiling, and Bakura smiles politely back. "I pay for lunch, next visit." A deal was a deal, as much as it sucked, sometimes.
Bakura and Yugi both turn their gazes to Ryou, who's still seated, not having moved an inch since the game officially ended. He seems to be zoning out, hazel-eyes slightly glazed over as he watches the air in front of him, and Bakura exhales quickly, almost in a huff, and Yugi just frowns. "Ryou?" he softly prompts, and quickly, the skinny boy snaps out of his reverie, blinking and smiling.
"Oh," he laughs, slightly forced. "Sorry, guys. I'm kinda out-of-it, today." Unwrapping his arms from around himself, long limbs lengthening in a slight stretch as his bony body uncurls, Ryou stands. "Who won?" he asks, but he already knows. He's tagged along on these little "bowling competitions" between his two closest friends for a while, now, and it always ends the same, unless some sort of weird fluke happens. Bakura's passion for the competition and the win tends to overpower his other friend's rather passive, calmer nature, so he nods, just letting out a small "ahh" as he sees the score. Then, he turns back to his companions. "So, are we going out to eat today or next time?"
Bakura just turns away, letting out another half-breath, half-huff, stretching his arms and moving to go grab his jacket, which rests next to his nachos. He knows better than to suggest what he wants, which is to go out to eat; with Ryou in one of his moods, it'd be useless to tell the truth, because Ryou will just frown and be silent and brooding the entire trip, and Yugi will strongly protest, seeing that Ryou doesn't want to go, so Bakura's learned to just keep his mouth shut. Yugi shoots a small half-glance to Bakura next to him, and then, his purple-eyed gaze turns back to Ryou. He smiles. "Next time," he simply says, and Ryou lets out a small, small breath of relief, hardly noticeable to anyone who doesn't know what to look for (and, consequently, both Yugi and Bakura do). "I have some stuff to finish for a class tomorrow, and I'm working, sooo..."
With that, Bakura zips up his jacket and exhales loudly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Okay," he simply agrees, quickly. "Ryou and I can just head home." The three boys then gather their bearings, heading to leave, when suddenly, the television flashes from the cheesy, cutesy graphics for bowling games to a newsflash: New gang murder in local city.
Yugi and Ryou's eyes move to the screen as the bright white and red newscast moves across the TV, and Bakura feels like throwing up.
The overly-made-up, bleach-blonde news anchor keeps her face stone-still as she begins: something about a new murder in the city. The only reason it was notable was the brutal way the victim was killed—a nasty, deep slit to the throat—and who he was. Apparently, he was affiliated with one of the biggest, most notorious gangs around, and the murder was suspected to be committed by a member of the rival gang, another huge, underground organization in the city. Police have no leads on who the killer might be, and in a city, with crime rate at such a high, the chances of finding the murderer were low, and the investigators suspected that due to the high rate of known-gang killings happening in the past month or so, another one might occur soon.
Yugi shakes his head, frowning slightly, and Ryou just swallows, quickly turning away, ducking his head, muttering a "let's get out of here," and Bakura couldn't agree more.
Yugi flicks on his turning signal as he maneuvers his car into the far left lane.
Licking his lips, he taps his fingers on the steering wheel to a random beat in his head, mind mulling over the paper he has to finish tonight before it'll be due tomorrow morning at 9AM. He's trying to avoid thinking anymore about Bakura than he already has, today; he couldn't help but notice the way the other boy tensed up slightly when the newscast came on the TV, and Yugi found that odd. It probably was no big deal, though. With a soft sigh, Yugi mentally mutters something about "college" and "annoying professors," trying to keep his mind on one track, and that's when his phone goes off. Scooting around in his front seat a beat, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out the phone, pressing the small green button as the light changes and he carefully turns his car down the next street. "Hello?"
"Hey, Yugi."
The chipper voice moves through the speakers to Yugi's ear, and a huge, blinding smile spreads across the boy's face. "Yami," he finds himself saying, voice smooth, even, not reflecting the butterflies of excitement that start up in his gut at the thought of the other man calling him. "Hi, how are you? Where are you right now?" He tries not to stumble on his words as they fly out of his mouth
Before he had to head back to his hometown for a family emergency, Yami and Yugi had been sort of…well, not seeing each other, but yes. They were hanging out, not dating or anything, but seeing the occasional movie or heading to lunch or dinner together ever since they'd met in a class back in the first semester of college earlier that year. It was sort of a difficult relationship to explain to himself, let alone anyone else, so Yugi had managed to keep it all under wraps for now, even with Ryou. No one of Yugi's family or other group of buddies had ever met Yami, and for now, Yugi wanted to keep it that way. He had only really started to accept the fact he might be a little bit more than completely heterosexual, and he didn't want to complicate anything he was feeling or experiencing with Yami by sharing it all with his relatives or his friends. Yami was an amazing, sweet, guy who always brought a smile to Yugi's face and complimented his level-headed personality very well with his own laid-back demeanor.
The last thing Yugi wanted to do was ruin that with a small slip of the tongue.
Yami laughs on the other line. "It was okay. Turns out, the `family emergency' was my mother's cat getting sick, so..."
Yugi laughs, his already rather cherubic face getting a rosy tinge as he does so. "Wow," the boy replies, smirking slightly as he continues driving to his apartment.
Yami's silent for a moment, and Yugi can hear him swallow slightly. "So, hey," the slightly older boy suddenly starts speaking, again, sounding a bit out-of-character. "I…missed you."
Yugi smiles: a shining, gentle grin that slides over his sweet features easily. "I missed you, too," he whispers out in reply, and it's almost nice to know Yami's as careful with their relationship as he is. To Yugi, that translates to the fact that Yami values it as much as he does, and that's always good.
Yami laughs, that smooth, soft, all too natural, true-blue laugh that Yugi adores. "Yeah. So, uhm, you want to go out, tomorrow, maybe? I can pick you up for lunch at 12."
Yugi, completely forgetting about his seven page paper due in the morning and how weird Bakura seems to act when the topic of murder comes up, feels a smile spread widely across his face, his insides lighting up, and he breathes out,
"Yeah, Yami. That sounds great."
Ryou takes a swig of the glass of orange juice he holds in his hand, moving around and out of the small kitchenette and into the living room of his and Bakura's apartment. He blinks his brown eyes and licks his lips as he sighs gently, shuffling over to Bakura, placing down his cup onto the coffee table, and without a word, he sprawls down on top of Bakura's frame. Nuzzling his nose deeply into the fabric of Bakura's jacket, he inhales the strangely sweet, calming smell of his roommate, and he moves his gaze to look adorably at Bakura.
Bakura, suddenly interrupted by a lap, chest, hell, body, full of Ryou, "oomfs" as his form is suddenly met with the weight of his best friend. Despite himself, he feels a small smile slip onto his lips, and he cocks one eyebrow, gazing down, meeting his friend's seemingly innocent, wide eyes with his own. Normally, especially after coming home from the bowling alley and being in one of his "moods," Ryou would get all upset and mope around the house for a bit, but…well, for some reason, he just can't help it as a tickling, fluttery sort of feeling fills his gut and he really finds himself savoring Bakura's body warmth against his own a bit too much. "Ryou," he finally speaks, voice gently chiding, as if he's talking to a six-year-old. "What do you want?"
Ryou makes a small noise, rolling over with a grunt as he turns onto his back. His head rests against Bakura's chest, his own legs interlaced with Bakura's, their limbs one giant knot, Bakura's arms on either side of his own upper body as he almost-kind-of-holds him on the couch. Bringing up his hands, he idly picks at the skin around his fingers for a moment and shrugs. "Nothing," he simply says, and then leans his head back, straining to look at his best friend, biting his lower lip. "I only want to be with you, is all. Is that a crime? Wanting to be around your best friend?"
Bakura resists the urge to quickly spurt back "yes," and just mutters a small, "no,"
A silence follows, and the two best friends don't really look at each other; they just lie in each other's arms, Ryou still staring at his fingers and Bakura still staring at the wall right above the top of Ryou's white hair.
"Bakura, why don't you ever let me know what you do for a job?"
Ryou's question is so innocent, so seemingly simple, as it breaks through the quiet atmosphere, suddenly, and yet Bakura hears it, and he feels his stomach sink to his feet.
He swallows, throat suddenly feeling dry, and then, he laughs. It's forced, but it's hard to tell; Bakura's good at faking, lying. "You know what I do, Ross. I work as a music tech, at clubs." The slightly older man turns, shooting a smirk up at his best friend. "That is how we met, if you don't remember."
More silence descends, and now, it's Bakura's turn.
"Why don't you ever eat?"
Ryou feels his body freeze, and a frown pulls at his lips, swallowing hard. A sudden anger wells up inside him.
"Bakura, don't be immature. Just because I asked something that was personal that pissed you off doesn't mean that you have to ask something to piss me off…"
"It's not that big of a deal, Ryou. I just asked why you don't eat a lot. If it's as simple of a thing as you always seem to make it out to be, then just answer the question."
Damn, Bakura's good.
Ryou hesitates only a minute, and then, he shrugs. "I don't know. I just am never really hungry, I guess. Never had much of an appetite, or much of a metabolism."
Bakura nods, and Ryou thinks he probably doesn't buy it, but he's not going to ask for more of an explanation, and Ryou doesn't offer to.
A few more seconds pass without words, the clock in the kitchen so loud Ryou can hear the ticking from the other room.
"I wanted to be a musician, you know."
Ryou blinks, turning his gaze to his best friend. "What?"
Bakura fidgets around slightly. "I wanted to be a musician. You know, for a band, or something. But, it didn't work out."
Ryou bites his lower lip. "Did your…parents, like, get annoyed at you or something? Or did you just chicken out?" Ryou hates talking about things like this; he himself is sensitive to the topic of family, and he knows Bakura is, too. But sometimes, it just can't be avoided forever, and Ryou is, honestly, a bit curious. He's shared his past with Bakura, but his roommate hasn't returned the favor, and there's this part of Ryou, that, well, wants to know.
Bakura's suddenly silent.
Ryou swallows. "'Kura…?"
"My parents were out of the picture a long time ago."
Bakura's reply is so monotone, so quick, so sharp, that Ryou actually feels like he's been punched in the gut at its curtness. He blinks, feeling the hurt fall over him, even though it is his fault for asking, and quickly, he opens his mouth to apologize.
But, before he has a chance to get the "I'm sorry" to leave his lips, Bakura is standing in a small rustle of fabric and untangled limbs, not looking back once, not explaining himself once, muttering a, "I'm gonna go take a nap," and Ryou's left alone on the couch, completely confused, hurt, and missing his best friend's warmth just a little bit too much.
"Bakura, go. Go."
The six-year-old's brown eyes are wide with total terror and tears as he stares, white-faced, throat dry, at his mother. The woman's normally beautiful, loving, sweet features are now contorted in pain and fear as she cups her son's soft face, staring directly into his eyes, ordering him sternly. Gently, her thumb caresses his skin, a habitual, motherly action that she can't seem to shake despite the horrible, horrible circumstances. Her heart pounds, and maybe she would be more scared if she hadn't already acceptedwhat's going to happen to her, and the fact that she couldn't change it if she wanted to.
All she's focusing on, this second, right now, is getting her child safe. She knows that if he moves, if he moves now, he has a chance. She's got to give him that chance.
Bakura feels like he's about to cry, his throat choked up, burning, his eyesight blurring, but his mom is letting out a small sound of annoyance, like she does on those days when he steals cookies from the cookie jar before dinner and refuses to eat his vegetables or quiet down at bedtime, and Bakura just feels his eyes burn harder. She pushes him, now, her hands on his back (and the little boy feels unnerved at the fact he realizes his mother is shaking, trembling), gentle but unrelenting, his tiny, clumsy legs almost tripping over each other as he moves across their home's wood floor, to the basement door.
"Bakura, sweetie, I need you to stay down there, and I don't want you to come out for a long, long time, okay? It'll be like hide-and-seek: your favorite game. Don't come out until someone finds you!"
Bakura can feel the atmosphere pulsing with something the little boy can't quite name, only, he thinks he's felt it before, in his nightmares. The ones that freeze him solid, where he can't move his muscles as he stands there and watches the monsters get closer and closer, ready to gobble him up, horror pounding through his veins as he realizes he is totally, completely hopeless. He can hear his mother's heart beating madly, and it's terrifying for the six-year-old to think that his mother, the woman that's supposed to be his protector, his safe-haven, the one he can go to for warm hugs and kisses, is maybe as scared as he is. But, somehow, the little boy clears his mind enough to stumble through the semi-darkness of his home, moving through the now-open basement door as his mom all but pushes him down the steep steps. Normally, he'd take his time as he moved down the carpeted staircase, his tiny body not quite big enough to make it down quickly, but now, with his mother so close behind him, all but forcing him down as fast as his little legs can go, he really has no choice.
He lets out a small, scared breath, and he's so confused as his mother leads him to the very back of the basement, past the family room with the big TV where he watches movies on Sunday nights, eating popcorn and laughing so hard his stomach hurts after. She leads him past the air hockey table that his dad bought him for his last birthday, even though he wasn't even tall enough, yet ("He'll grow into it!" his dad insisted as his mom frowned), past Bakura's favorite bright purple bean-bag chair, to the garage, and then, she opens the door.
Bakura hates the garage.
He shivers as he stands at the doorway, the cool draft from the house's lower level suddenly blowing forward through the room right smack into him and his mother, hitting him full-force, and his small body shivers; the boy is still in his pajamas: a pair of checkered boxers and his favorite black top with a smiling green dinosaur in the corner, so there's not much to cover him from the cold. Bakura is even more lost than before.
"M-Mommy," he stammers out, turning, his wide, confused brown eyes boring up into his parent's. "M-Mommy, I-I thought the garage is—is dangerous. I-It has all of daddy's work things and I'm not a-allowed in there…" The little boy's voice is broken, stammering, and it's both from a mix of the cold, his tiredness, and the simple fact he hates the garage: its darkness, its weird smell, its spiders, its quiet. He'd never even want to play in there, even if he was allowed.
His mother, whose gaze honestly wasn't on her son, her dark brown eyes instead turned, terrified, to watch up the staircase, looking for some unknown threat, suddenly looks down at her boy, and she swallows. A sadness, a regret wells up in her gaze that the six-year-old can't understand, and he just watches her as they both stay silent. He doesn't understand any of this; one minute, he's dreaming, sleeping soundly in his warm bed with his bright blue nightlight in the corner and his warm teddy bear close in his arms, and the next, his mother is waking him up, hand held tightly to his, whispering in hushed, nervous voices to his daddy as she takes him downstairs. It all happened so fast, and now here Bakura is, still not even fully awoken, being told to hide in the garage of all places.
Gently, Bakura's mother bends down.
She just stares at her son, for a moment, her eyes meeting his, holding the gaze for a long, long time, and she's thinking things her son will never understand. Things like how the world is unfair, cruel, and wishing she could see this beautiful, beautiful little boy grow up. Bakura just watches her back. Finally, she reaches up a shaking, white hand, and she smoothes some white hair out of her son's beautiful face, and Bakura feels even more scared than ever when he sees her start to cry. The tears start to roll down her cheeks, bright and clear, and as her fingers caress his skin, pressing softly, lovingly, Bakura frowns, pouting deeply. "Mommy, you're crying!" he says, voice sad, upset, and innocent.
The woman laughs; it's not a real laugh, though. It's broken, scared, and weak. She smiles, mostly for her son more than herself, and she shakes her head. "I'm fine, 'Kura," she says, and then, she whispers again, as if trying to convince herself for these last few moments she's going to be with her child, "I'm fine."
A silence arises, but it's shorted lived: only a few seconds long. Because, up above, in the foyer, something suddenly crashes, and Bakura's mother gasps. Quickly, she scoops up her little boy and carries him quickly into the garage so that Bakura doesn't even have a second more to protest about the spiders or the fact the garage is "off-limits" or anything like that. She plants him down, firmly, right behind what Bakura knows to be his dad's tool shelf. The little boy's body slides perfectly behind the wood, and his mom bends down, right next to him in his hiding spot. When she speaks, her voice is so close to Bakura's ear that he shivers, feeling her warm breath on his skin. "Bakura," she says, and her voice is so serious, so strained, that Bakura immediately, despite his confusion, his sleepiness, his fear, exhales slightly, straightening as best he can in the small spot to attention. "Bakura, I love you."
Bakura blinks.
"I-I love you too, Mommy…" he whispers out, not quite sure why she sounds so sad, like she's about to cry. Isn't love supposed to be something...something happy?
Before he can get out another word, his parent is crushing him to her chest in a big hug, so hard it hurts, and Bakura lets out a small grunt, fidgeting slightly in his mother's arms. He feels her tears wet against his hair. Finally, she lets go, and then, without another word, he hears her sniffle, and then, she's pulling things in front of him. A toolbox, a beach ball, a basketball: things that shield her son from view, if anyone were to venture into the garage. Bakura's confused, and he opens his mouth to protest, at least until his mother quietly but harshly orders, "Bakura, stay quiet." And normally, Bakura wouldn't dream of being silent, but with the way his mother sounds, he slams his mouth shut and doesn't dare open it again.
And then, she's gone, scurrying through the garage, closing the door, sealing Bakura in darkness, and Bakura can hear her as she moves fast, back up the steps.
The little boy lets out a soft whimper as soon as he's alone.
But he stays brave. He pretends like he's a prince, like when he plays make-believe with his friends, and he has to save the princess from the evil dragon. He has to be brave, standing there: cold, hidden, exhausted, and completely alone, and listen to what his mom told him to do. He isn't going to cry, to go back up and try his find his mommy or daddy. He's going to be brave.
He tries to sit down, but there's not enough room, and soon, the poor little boy's legs start to get achy. His eyelids are drooping, and he's so sleepy it hurts, but something in the little guy tells him not to fall asleep. Suddenly, right above him, a second crash comes, then the squeak of a chair sliding on the hardwood floor, and then, a small yelp from his mother.
Bakura feels a terror run through him like no other, and the little boy gasps. His mommy is hurt.
What is he supposed to do?
Sure, he was a brave prince. But princes are supposed to save things, save others. And his mommy was hurt, of all people…
Bakura takes his tiny little hands, and with a small grunt, he pushes the beach ball, the basketball, away from his face. They bounce—the noise echoing as they move along the concrete floor—and the little boy's face sets in a determined little stare. The toolbox is a little bit harder to maneuver around, but he manages, clambering over it, already quite a limber kid from all his playground romping, his few gymnastic lessons, and the trampoline in his family's backyard. He moves, quickly, fear moving through him as he breathes out in short little gasps, until he reaches the garage door. Leaning up on his tip-toes, he reaches for the doorknob and gets his little hands around it before turning and stepping out into the basement. He doesn't bother to close the door as he shuffles through the lower level of his home, and then, he half-walks, half-climbs up the steep steps until he reaches the door that leads to the second floor. And suddenly, he pauses.
There are voices. Voices Bakura doesn't recognize.
It's two men; they're angry. He hears them yelling, things he doesn't understand, and he hears his daddy yelling back, and then, there's a crash. It's so loud: glass breaking. Bakura cringes, and he hopes that it wasn't his mother's favorite vase. He almost broke that once, and he got a timeout.
And then, it happens, again.
His mother screams.
It's louder, this time: more desperate, more scared. Bakura's eyes widen, and he reaches up to the door.
He has to rescue her.
He pushes open the door, the slightest bit, and his already wide-eyes almost pop out of his head at what he sees.
There are two men, like he thought before. They're dressed in dark clothes. They're very scary looking, covered in tattoos and earrings and they're so, so big. Bakura's never seen men that big before.
One of them pulls something out of their pocket.
Bakura gasps; he peers out of the small space he's made for himself in the doorway and watches as his mother, tears streaming down her face, steps back, farther behind his dad, who stands, shaking, in front of his wife. The man points the thing he pulled out of his pocket at his family.
Bakura swallows.
He knows what that thing is; a policeman came into school once and told them they were very dangerous. It was a gun.
And then, before Bakura has time to move, to breathe, to think, the scary man is pulling the trigger, and the gun goes off. It's a loud, loud `boom,' and it echoes all through the house, hurting the little boy's ears, and Bakura jumps, almost shooting into the air from his small hiding spot. He watches, not able to look away, as the gun shoots, and his dad suddenly falls to the ground with his mother's shriek and then heart wrenching sob. Bakura's brown-eyed gaze follows his father's form to the floor, and he sees his parent's eyes, suddenly glazed over with a terrifying, white color, a small hole right in his forehead as his neck is twisted to stare right at his son in death, blood pouring from his forehead.
Bakura feels his knees start to buckle.
And then, within a minute, it's finished.
One more shot is fired, and Bakura feels his stomach twist and turn as he watches his mother fly backwards, her stomach suddenly exploding with blood and guts and things from violent TV shows he's not allowed to watch that he thought were all make-believe but apparently aren't. She crashes into the glass patio doors she was standing right in front of, and it shatters, the noise hitting Bakura's ears almost as violently as the first gunshot. The glass flies, and Bakura can see his mother's mangled body outside, illuminated sickly by the unknowing moonlight, shimmering and coated with blood, her clothes torn, her limbs sliced.
It's quiet, then.
"Shit, Cee. You think you could have made it any fuckin' louder?"
The man who didn't shoot the gun suddenly speaks, and he glares at his companion. The shooter flips him off, shrugging, as if murdering a family is no big thing. And, for him, it really isn't. "Boss said get it done; I got it done." Then, slowly, the man walks over to the body of Bakura's father, and he stares down at the dead man, his face reading disgust. He sneers, and then, he spits, the noise sick and mocking as he aims right on Bakura's father's body. "Bastard deserved it. Did his job, but he couldn't keep his damn mouth shut."
He turns, motioning for his companion to start moving toward the exit. "Cops'll be here soon. We gotta get the hell outta here." They make their way toward the foyer, passing right by, unknowingly by, the basement door where the last member of the family hides in the dark.
And then, Bakura starts crying.
Out of all the moments he could have started crying, it was right then. Right as the murders were about to leave, leave the boy unharmed, he starts crying. The noise is sharp, shrill, the little boy's sobs echoing through the air, carrying out to the men's ears.
Bakura knows he should stop; he should be quiet, like his mother told him. But, his mother is dead, now. Bakura's seen enough TV, seen enough movies, learned enough in school, to know that much. His entire family is gone. He is alone.
The tears come so fast they hurt; he squeezes his eyes shut, his tiny body shaking, quaking with the sobs. He can't think, he can't breathe, he can't speak. He can't scream for help; he can't run back to his hiding spot. He just stands there, on the steps, crying, completely helpless.
The door squeaks open, and the huge shadow of the man with the gun looms over the six-year-old. Bakura manages to look up, though his tears, and though his vision is blurry, he can still see the sneer, the sickly amused look on the man's face, and the boy shivers harder. He's so scary-looking—like a monster from one of Bakura's bad dreams. Not only is he huge, but Bakura sees a big tattoo, right there on his right wrist: it's a scary looking dragon, serpent of some sort, with big teeth and scary, sharp scales. The very thing he's supposed to be fighting as a prince, and yet, now, he's scared, because suddenly, it hits him that he might die, too.
And he still can't move.
"I knew they had a kid running around here," the man muses, laughs, and then he reaches into his pocket, his fingers hooking around the holster of the gun. His sneer only grows, a dark shadow moving across his face, and this is sick. This is the darkest of the dark, the most ruthless of the ruthless: the scum of the human race. The people that murder an innocent family and then stare at their six-year-old son sobbing before moving to blow his brains out.
"Cee, knock the fuck off. Leave the kid. He's little; what harm can he do? Besides, we don't have the fuckin' time."
The other man speaks just as the gun is halfway out of his pocket.
The killer freezes, and he watches Bakura for a moment. Then, without another word, he grunts in something that's probably agreement, and he moves to shut the door. Bakura is still crying. But, almost as soon as the door is almost completely shut, the man freezes, again. He turns back, and that sick smirk comes back onto his lips as he says,
"You got lucky, kid."
And then Bakura's falling down the steps, tumbling, rolling, as the man hits him in the back of the head with his gun, pushing him down the stairway until the little boy hits the floor and his world blackens to oblivion.
Bakura wakes up, and he's crying.
"Shit," he murmurs, his hands flying to his face, feeling the wetness streaming down his cheeks. Quickly, his eyes move up to the door, and thankfully, it's closed. Ryou didn't come in when he heard him screaming (which he undoubtedly was; he always screamed when he had that dream), and so there's no one to see him cry. The boy wipes at his tears with the back of his hands, sniffling, trying to calm his racing heart, his shaking body. He inhales and exhales deeply, trying to get his mind on something besides the horrid, disgusting memories and images racing through his brain.
"It's over," he finally murmurs to himself, squeezing his hands into fists so hard that when he unclenches them, there are tiny, bloody marks where his nails dug into his pale skin. "It's over."
And that seems to help him calm down, because he closes his eyes, and the pounding in his head, the adrenaline pumping through his veins, suddenly stops. He takes a moment, lingering in the semi-darkness, the haziness of his room, and then suddenly—
The ringtone of his phone breaks through the quiet of his room, and Bakura jumps slightly. Almost falling off of the bed, the boy clambers over to his nightstand, maneuvering his way past a tangle of bed-sheets awkwardly, messily wrapped around his torso and legs, and his fingers grab for his cellphone. He looks at the ID:
Marik.
Bakura feels his stomach sink to his feet, and he swallows hard, suddenly feeling like he can't breathe.
The call stops after two rings, the music ceasing to move through his room, and Bakura knows what that means. Quickly, he jumps up, untangling himself from the covers, and pulls on his shoes from earlier that day. With a quick glance to his clock, he sees it's about 5:30 in the afternoon, and he licks his dry lips. Moving to the small mirror above his dresser, he looks at himself in the reflection; he looks like hell, of course. His white, messy bed-head hair stands straight up, slick with sweat against his forehead. He reaches up, fiddling with his hair a bit, and that's about all he can do. He has to get going; "late" is not acceptable when meeting up with Marik.
Then, he races out of his room, stuffing his cellphone and wallet into his back pocket. He flies by Ryou, still in the living room, reading a novel, and the boy looks up as the blur of his best friend races by, raising an eyebrow. "Where are you going?" he asks, frowning, and Bakura doesn't even stop, heading for the front door and swinging it open as he says,
"I have to go out. I'll be back late; don't wait up for me."
Ryou tries not to let the disappointment, the anger, the fear, and the hurt well up inside him too badly as Bakura slams the door, and he's left in the empty, quiet apartment.
R&R :D
