8
A dream wakes me. Bakura holding me. It would never happen; that is how I wake myself. Knowledge of the impossible, and of the wished for.
I won't torture myself like that.
But...
Here we still lay.
Dreams blend. Smooth like thread-less seams, he presses his face to my neck and he does not cry, but I can feel him breathe like a child.
"You're awake," he says, does not whisper in the dark.
"Yes," I return, quietly.
Silence then.
"Do you like the rain?"
He is a child.
"Sometimes," the words slip too softly from my lips.
He laughs.
