Notes: I actually did what Bakura says Joey did. And the mention of the chemistry class escapades is a nod to a beloved old RP.

Night

Prompt: Beauty

By the time Yami Bakura somehow completed the shower and staggered out to get dressed, his body was aching and his mind was in a fog. When he limped out of the bathroom, he fully intended to go into Bakura's father's room, where he slept when the museum director was not home. But instead he shuffled into Bakura's room and collapsed on the boy's bed. The mattress felt so soft and comforting against his throbbing joints and raw skin. He pulled the pillow closer to him.

Sleep came without him being fully aware of her presence, enfolding him in her heavy arms and dragging him back to Yami Marik's world---a world filled with nothing but torment and anguish, where Bakura was harmed in all manner of horrifying ways and died gruesome deaths. A world where, if he survived, he turned against Yami Bakura. A world where Yami Bakura was killed in every terrifying way Yami Marik could think of, only to be brought back to life for it to start all over again. . . .

He woke up gasping and drenched in cold sweat, his eyes wide as he clutched the pillow.

"Yami?"

The worried voice made him jump a mile. Bakura . . . was it really Bakura? He turned, his eyes searching in the darkness. The boy seemed to be sitting in the chair by the bed. And light . . . there was light coming from the hall, though this room was in darkness. He had been in a land of total night for so long that anything else seemed strange.

"Oh Yami, what is it?!" Bakura exclaimed, breaking into his turning thoughts once again.

Yami Bakura let go of the pillow, reaching out a desperate hand to grab Bakura's wrist. "Come closer," he half-ordered, half-begged. It truly was real, wasn't it? Bakura felt real. This bed felt real. Even the light felt real. But it could all disappear so fast. Yami Marik had proved that to him time and again. Now it was a lesson he could never forget.

Bewildered and stunned, Bakura stood up and moved to the edge of the bed. As he sat on the mattress, Yami Bakura rose, looking at his descendant with urgency. "Look at me!" he commanded. "Am I whole?"

Bakura nodded. "Yes, Yami," he reassured.

"Are you sure?!" Yami Bakura cried.

Bakura tried to blink back the tears. "Yes!" he said. Gently he took Yami Bakura's hand, bringing it to his own face. "Here, Yami. Feel. You're quite whole."

Yami Bakura touched the side of his face, then brought his hand to his neck and shoulders. "I don't trust how things appear to be anymore," he said. "What about you? Are you whole?"

"I am!" Bakura said. "But Yami . . ." He swallowed hard. "If . . . if you don't trust how things appear, how can you trust that I'm really here, telling you the truth?"

"I don't know." Yami Bakura looked away, a shudder rippling through his body. The memories were still too fresh in his mind, things he could never survive if they really happened. Things Bakura could never survive, and had not survived. And always Yami Marik, laughing, laughing, his horrible, twisted visage lurking in the background of Yami Bakura's mind.

He covered his face with a shaking hand.

"Yami . . ." Bakura sounded hesitant now. "Do you . . . want to talk about it?"

He shook his head. He did not know that he would ever be ready for that. Besides, in spite of everything Bakura had seen over the years, he still somehow managed to be innocent and optimistic. Yami Bakura did not want to plague his mind with the images of what he had seen and experienced again and again during his captivity.

". . . You talk," he said.

Bakura blinked. "Me?" he said in confusion.

Yami Bakura nodded. "Just talk about anything." He wanted to hear Bakura's voice. He wanted to be told all manner of foolish, ridiculous things that he could not care less about, just so there was something else to put his mind to besides the memories of the torture. And maybe . . . maybe it would further help him to believe in this reality. The Bakuras in his illusions never spoke of trivial matters.

"Anything?" Bakura shifted, surprised and a bit uncomfortable with the request. "Well, I'll try," he said. "Should I talk about school? Yugi and the others?"

"Anything, anything!" Yami Bakura said. He took his hand away from his face and just sat on the bed, looking forlorn and exhausted.

"Well . . ." Bakura chuckled weakly. "After a refresher lesson in math class on all the different kinds of triangles, Joey tried to figure out what kind the sandwiches in the cafeteria had been cut into. . . . Tristan told him he was getting far too involved in the concept."

Yami Bakura grunted. That sounded like them.

". . . An experiment in science class blew up again," Bakura said sheepishly.

"What damage was done this time?" Yami Bakura spoke. The chemistry experiments were notorious for going awry. And the chemistry teacher was notorious for finding each disaster a fascination---something that on the one hand Yami Bakura found amusing, while on the other it seemed unprofessional. Or maybe that was his protective side talking. After all, Bakura could get hurt. Once he and the rest of the class had fallen unconscious from an experiment that had created a new kind of knockout gas. Bakura was just lucky that Yami Bakura had been there then to take control and get him out of the room---and to bring help for the others, of course.

"I'm afraid we currently have no window panes," Bakura said. "Everything made of glass shattered."

Yami Bakura sneered.

". . . There's a Valentine's dance coming up," Bakura said, grasping for anything to say.

"And I suppose quite a few girls are hoping you'll ask them to go," Yami Bakura remarked.

Bakura's cheeks colored at the thought. "I've never been very good with girls," he said.

Yami Bakura smirked in amusement. "And since you don't want to make any of them hurt or angry or jealous, I suppose you'll opt to not ask anyone, as usual."

"I suppose. I really wasn't even planning on going." Especially not now. Bakura had promised he would not leave Yami Bakura during his recovery. And he would far rather spend the evening with the thief instead of going to a dance and feeling awkward for three hours.

He turned a deeper red as he remembered something else. ". . . You know, Yami, you've actually made quite a name for yourself," he said.

Questioning lavender eyes searched the brown orbs for an explanation. Bakura scratched his cheek.

"Some of the girls at school, well . . . they've been asking me about my Egyptian cousin," he said. "They think you're quite exotic."

Yami Bakura just looked disgusted. "The empty-headed fanclub of Duke Devlin's?" he guessed.

Bakura blushed even more. "Well . . . yes," he admitted.

"As I recall, they also started a fanclub for you," Yami Bakura said.

Bakura shifted. "They did," he nearly squeaked.

Yami Bakura smirked now. "And I suppose they sit around discussing how you keep your hair so perfect," he said. "And how polite and kind you are. And what it would be like to go on a date with you."

Bakura was bright red again. "Oh Yami, stop teasing!" he exclaimed, waving a hand at the entertained Egyptian. "You're finding this far too amusing!"

"It is amusing," Yami Bakura grinned.

Bakura blinked and then gave him a mischievous smile. "Maybe you wouldn't think so if they made a fanclub for you and started discussing what it would be like to go on a date with you," he said.

"They can discuss it all they want," Yami Bakura said. "If they actually attempted such a thing, they would regret it."

Thinking of how Yami Bakura would behave if he took a girl to a restaurant, Bakura winced and had to agree. In fact, he would regret it. He would feel like sinking through the floor out of embarrassment.

Yami Bakura smirked more, seeing Bakura's glowing face. "I win," he said.

Bakura hit him lightly on the shoulder. "This isn't a contest!" he said.

"It is, because I just invented it," Yami Bakura said.

Bakura crossed his arms. "Oh? And what kind of contest is it, exactly?"

"A contest to determine who can rattle the other first," Yami Bakura said.

"That's rubbish," Bakura said. But he could not help the bittersweet smile that passed over his face. Yami Bakura was acting normal. He was going at this nonsense as if he and Bakura really were brothers. If anyone happened to see this scene, they would never know what he had been through or how he was still suffering. And of course, that was how he wanted it. But Bakura, sitting next to him, could see the pain in his eyes and the gauntness of his form. This attempt at behaving normally was all an act. He was screaming inside.

". . . Is there anything you'd like to eat, Yami?" Bakura asked now.

Yami Bakura grunted and shrugged.

Bakura racked his mind, thinking. "Maybe some broth?" he suggested. "It would be good for you and easy on your stomach. Oh . . . and it has a taste of meat. . . ."

Yami Bakura's eyes lit up. "Perhaps," he said.

Bakura chuckled. "Well, come on then," he said, getting off the bed. ". . . Unless you'd rather wait here while I fix it," he amended.

Yami Bakura began to ease his muscular form off the mattress. "I'll come down there," he said. He would not admit that he did not want to be alone right now. As long as Bakura was here, the worst of Yami Marik's damage seemed to be held at bay. Once he was alone, the nightmares and hallucinations would probably start anew. They were already tugging at his mind, in the form of cruel laughs and screams.

Bakura waited in case he needed help. As he stumbled, Bakura reached and took hold of his arm. "I'll help you down," he offered, his voice and his smile kind and quiet.

Ordinarily Yami Bakura would have pulled away and asserted his independence. But he knew he was likely to fall. So instead he swallowed his pride---something he had been forced to do all that day---and shakily brought his arm around the boy's shoulders.

Bakura slipped his arm around the taller man's lower back, walking slowly as they headed for the door. Yami Bakura half-limped, half-shuffled as they went, not speaking as he concentrated on moving forward without stumbling. Once or twice he staggered, pitching forward as Bakura hastened to tighten his grip. Yami Bakura in turn clutched Bakura's shoulder in desperation as he tried to right himself.

Somehow they made it downstairs without disaster striking. Bakura gave a sigh of relief as they went into the kitchen, where Yami Bakura let go and sank into a chair. Bakura looked to him, then crossed the room to busy himself with the stove and the cupboard.

"Are you making it from scratch?" Yami Bakura asked.

Bakura opened the cupboard door. "I'm afraid not," he said. "I don't know how, and anyway, it would take much too long." He brought out a blue-and-white can. "I'm sure this will taste better than anything I could cook."

Yami Bakura gave a tired smirk, resting his right arm on the table. The long walk from Bakura's room and down the stairs had drained him. He was content to be silent now, just observing Bakura while somewhere in the background, the clock ticked out the late-night hour.

"You'll be a zombie at school," he remarked as Bakura poured the contents of the can into a saucepan.

"I won't be going," Bakura said firmly. "It's alright to miss a few days, or however long it takes. I could even have the teachers send the homework here." He turned to look at the exhausted thief with a smile. "I made a promise. I won't break it."

"No," Yami Bakura acknowledged. "You won't." Bakura was a loyal friend, his only friend. And it still amazed Yami Bakura that it was possible, that he, alone for millennia, could have such a devoted ally in a boy whom he had controlled for ages. Bakura should hate him and want nothing to do with him. Yet that was not the case at all.

His vision blurred as he observed the hotplate being turned up. The saucepan was glowing, bubbling. . . . Flames rose from within its depths, lapping at Bakura as the boy cried out in pain and tried to leap away. But some of the blaze had already caught on Bakura's clothes.

Yami Bakura leaped to his feet. "No!" he yelled, all thoughts of his lack of balance forgotten.

But even as he swayed, the scene vanished. There were no flames, no life-threatening danger. Bakura dropped the spoon into the broth, his eyes wide with worry and confusion. "Yami?!" he gasped. "What is it?"

Yami Bakura shook his head, passing a hand over his eyes as he sank back into the chair. No matter how he tried to make-believe everything was alright, he knew it was not. So did Bakura. Displays such as this only further proved it. He really was going mad.

He must have eventually started to doze, his head falling against his arm on the table, because suddenly Bakura was laying his hand on Yami Bakura's other shoulder. "It's done, Yami," he said gently.

Yami Bakura grunted, raising up as he blinked the sleep out of his eyes. "Where is it?" he mumbled.

"Right there," Bakura said, indicating a mug on the stove. "Do you want to drink it in here or somewhere else?"

Yami Bakura shrugged. He could not care less. But the winter night was cold. It reminded him far too much of being trapped by Yami Marik, vulnerable and freezing, as he was mocked day in and day out. . . .

Bakura smiled. "How about I start a fire and we go in the living room?" he suggested.

"Go right ahead," Yami Bakura answered.

Despite his attempt at indifference, Bakura detected that the thought of a roaring fire appealed greatly to him. He hastened into the living room and set about getting it going. Yami Bakura took up the mug and limped after him, supporting himself on the wall. He eased himself onto the couch, watching Bakura for a moment before taking a sip of the broth.

"How is it?" Bakura asked as he straightened up, admiring the bright flames bursting into being. He shut the safety grate and sat down next to Yami Bakura, who was licking his lips.

"Not bad," he said. "But it could use a more intense flavor of meat."

"Oh Yami. . . ." Bakura shook his head. "Food doesn't always have to revolve around meat!"

"If you're going to use meat in cooking, you should milk it for all it's worth," Yami Bakura said.

He drank slowly, grasping the mug in his hands. The pangs of hunger were attacking in vengeance now, and it was tempting to drink the broth down in several large gulps, but it was much too hot for that. The last thing he wanted was to burn his mouth and his throat. So he forced himself to take small sips, which graduated to large sips and then small gulps.

"Would you like anything else, Yami?" Bakura asked when he finally set the empty tumbler down on the coffee table.

Yami Bakura shrugged. On the one hand, he did. He was starving. But on the other, he was so worn-out he did not know how he would manage to get anything else down before a rest. Yet if he slept, the nightmares would almost certainly come back. And that would not be refreshing at all. He would wake up more ragged than before.

He turned to look at the boy as the firelight danced across his puzzled face. "How do you do it, Bakura?" he said instead.

Bakura blinked. "Do what?" He stared at the other. The red and orange hues cast shadows over the Egyptian's already-mysterious features, somehow making him look even more weary and tired.

Yami Bakura settled back against the couch, resting his head against the top of it as he gazed at the patterns on the ceiling. "How do you exercise such patience and kindness?" he wondered. "I can't. It just isn't who I am."

Bakura watched him, a sad smile creeping back over his features. "Surely you treated your family kindly," he said.

Yami Bakura shrugged. "I was a child then," he said. "I was six years old when they were all murdered. Six years out of over three thousand isn't much to speak of."

Bakura moved closer to him, turning to prop himself up on an elbow. "Well . . . I disagree, Yami," he said. "You've shown me kindness all along . . . though admittedly it wasn't always as frequent in the past. . . . And as for patience, you were very patient with me when I was trying to recover from what the White Death did to us. I was waking up screaming every night for quite some time."

Yami Bakura grunted.

"Yes, you were gruff, but that isn't the same thing as being impatient or unkind." Bakura studied him for any reaction. "It meant a lot to me."

He sighed. "I confess that you aren't always so patient, but who is, all the time? Even I've lost control of myself."

"Hardly ever," Yami Bakura said.

The fire was starting to die out now. Bakura reached for a fleece throw crumpled at one end of the couch, where he had fallen asleep once or twice during the nightmare of not knowing where Yami Bakura was being held. He spread it over them both, now resting his head against the top of the couch too.

"Both a strength and a weakness of yours is that you speak your mind, Yami," he said. "It's a weakness of mine that I can't, much of the time."

Yami Bakura had been studying the throw, but he looked back to Bakura at these words. "It takes a great deal of strength to not speak out if you want to," he said.

"Sometimes it's just lack of courage or lack of wanting to get into a fight," Bakura said. "I'm afraid I don't see it as a strength in those conditions," he chuckled.

"You've stood up to me many times. It's one reason why I respect you." One of many, Yami Bakura added to himself.

Bakura peered at him in surprise. But before he could respond, Yami Bakura went on, his voice dropping.

"Was it very difficult for you, when I was gone?"

Bakura bit his lip. "Yes," he said, averting his gaze. "I was in a panic." He swallowed hard. "Sometimes I had dreams of what was happening to you. And I wanted to run to you and save you from that horrible Yami Marik. I wanted it so badly! But . . . I . . . I didn't know where to go. Marik and Yugi, and even Joey, Tristan, and Téa, tried to help in whatever way they could . . . and we just kept running into dead-ends, over and over." He shook his head. "I was so afraid we'd never find you. At least . . . not in time. . . ."

Yami Bakura turned to better look at him. The exhaustion and the anguish and the pain were all very clear in Bakura's eyes, even in the dim light of the extinguishing fire. But then Bakura managed a smile again.

"Yet we did find you," he said, sounding awed. "And in time."

"Yes," Yami Bakura agreed. "You found me." He doubted he would ever be the same after this. Bakura could never be the same after the White Death incident. But oddly, maybe the boy was right. They had been helping each other through their trials. Neither of them had to be alone any more.

Bah, he was thinking ridiculous thoughts.

. . . But they were comforting ridiculous thoughts.

"You should rest," he growled. "You look like you haven't slept much more than I have."

As if on cue, Bakura suddenly had to try to stifle a yawn. "Oh dear," he mumbled.

"Now you'll give it to me," Yami Bakura complained.

But Bakura was already dozing against the couch. With Yami Bakura safe and for the moment, at peace, he was finally at peace too. A soft smile graced his features as his brown eyes slipped closed.

Yami Bakura grunted. Reaching over, he pulled the throw around Bakura's shoulder as it slipped down. Then he turned onto his side, leaning into the couch as he also began to doze.

Yami Bakura had not seen an end to his horrifying flashbacks and hallucinations, but for the first time in days, both he and Bakura slept peacefully.