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.