A/N: Yay, into the double-digit chapters!

Gosh, I love describing things so much in writing. I'd have to say that it's one of my favorite parts. So I really, really liked this chapter. So much description!

Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh!

The Next Afternoon, the Institution…

Marik stared at the girl that was sitting on the leather cot like a statue. Her white hair reached her lower back, and covered most of her face. He could still see one of her eyes, blue like the hottest of stars. She wore a white dress, the sleeves long and puffy, covering her hands. A delicate smile wove its way around her lips, as if she were remembering an inside joke with a friend.

She just screamed innocence.

He was in the main examination room, along with Doc and Sierra.

"Her name is Kisara." Doc explained. "We just got her. She was transferred from a nearby small town hospital by her family. They said she needs better care."

"Why isn't she in a room?" Marik asked, taking a reluctant step towards her.

Doc chuckled, the sound drawing an angry eyebrow twitch from Marik. Sierra, noticing how Doc had evidently decided not to answer said, "We were going to talk to her for a while before we assigned her a room. We like to take the time to learn more about our patients, maybe find out things other doctors couldn't."

"So, does she have a bad reputation, or something?" Marik, brow cocked, eyed the girl. She looked to be about his age, maybe a bit younger. She was still sitting completely motionless, seemingly unaware of the conversation going on around her. Her eyes were glazed over, saying that her mind was locked in a dream land.

"More or less." Doc didn't explain further.

After a moment, Marik asked another question. "Why am I here?"

"I was thinking that maybe you could talk to her for a while, make her a little bit more comfortable with her new home." Doc paused, sending Marik a teasing smirk. "I mean, you're here. We might as well make you do something."

Marik knew the older man was kidding, but he still felt fuzzy anger mudding his mind. He'd worked harder than he'd ever worked in his life in this place!

Sierra smiled at the two boys. Well, Doc wasn't really a boy anymore, but he sure acted like it. It had been her idea to have Marik converse with the new patient. He worked so well with Bakura. Who's to say he couldn't help Kisara? And, lord knows, she needs help. The girl was crazy, crazy, crazy. She'd been committed years ago, as her parents had tricked her into a mental evaluation (for her own good, they'd said, as they explained Kisara's story to Sierra) after several displays of her obvious illness.

"Okay. So I just…talk to her?" Marik crossed his arms, uncomfortable. Why were they leaving this to him? How could they be sure he wouldn't just mess her up more?

It was probably a joke, he decided.

"Yes. I'm going to stay here with you guys and Doc's going to go take care of some paperwork." Sierra flashed a smile at her husband, her polished red lips catching the light. "Right, honey?"

Doc, who obviously wanted to do nothing of the sort, pouted. "I guess…" He sighed and left the room.

It wasn't that she was trying to get rid of Doc, but more like she wanted him to finish his work so he wouldn't have to work extra hours. Again.

After the door shut rather loudly, Marik turned to Sierra. "So, mind telling me the real reason I'm here?"

She chuckled. "We already did."

Marik raised a doubting eyebrow.

Sierra shook her head, smiling down at the floor. "Just do your job, Marik."

Marik was beginning to realize that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't a joke. He gazed at Kisara, the statue-girl with the long white hair and the star-blue eyes. She was pretty, he had to admit, with large, guiltless eyes and dark, elegant black eyebrows that strongly contrasted her snowy hair. Her skin was pale, giving her an unhealthy, ghostly air that was quickly covered up by the warmth of her smile and ingenuously delicate frame.

He approached her, gently sitting down beside her on the cot. "Hi, Kisara. I'm—"

He was quickly cut off by the female patient, who decided it to be entertaining to jump him, pinning him against the leather. She gave him a quick smirk before leaning down to rest her lips on his, roughly forcing his mouth open with her own dynamic jaw movements.

Marik would have pulled away, had the leather cot not been blocking his escape. Instead he sent Sierra a desperate plea for help with his eyes. She was staring, shocked, at the two teens.

"Hey! Hey, excuse me!" She said, after a second.

Marik, who'd closed his eyes as tight as he could, felt the girl release him. No, she was pried off of him by Sierra, he realized as he opened one eye to peek at his surroundings.

He heard Sierra start to explain something to Kisara, but he didn't care. "What the hell was that?" He sat up, raising his arm to wipe Kisara's saliva from his mouth. Ugh, disgusting…

That had been his very first kiss, stolen by this girl who he didn't even know.

Sierra eyed him apologetically. "At least she's friendly…" She pointed out with a sheepish grin.

Kisara, however, was staring at him with hungry eyes, obviously wanting more. Her lips curled into a creepy firm smile, her glazed-over eyes set on his plump, red mouth.

Okay, she didn't look as innocent any more.

"Friendly? More like—"

"Marik!" Sierra cut him off. She was holding Kisara's body backward against her chest, her arms looped tightly around Kisara's midsection. "Let's just try this again. Kisara, don't…do what you just did."

After Kisara nodded, looking disappointed (but still not speaking, Marik noticed), Sierra released her. Marik stiffened his spine instinctively, not allowing himself to be surprised again. Or…was he making too big a deal out of this? It was just a kiss, after all.

Wait! No, it was not just a kiss! That had been his very first kiss. Once again, he'd let himself be robbed of his innocence. Was he really that pathetic…?

Noticing the troubled expression on Marik's face, Sierra put a hand on his shoulder. "You okay?"

Marik looked at her for a moment, surprised, before pasting his best fake smile on his face. "Yeah. Just a bit violated."

Sierra chuckled. "I guess that's to be expected."

"I'm hungry." Marik's head snapped to Kisara, who had actually spoken in a soft voice. "Got any monkey?"

Marik's eyes widened."Is she kidding?" He whispered to Sierra.

Her mouth formed a small 'O'. "I'm not…sure."

"You guys are gullible!" Kisara giggled, raising a hand to her mouth. Then she turned suddenly serious. "But I'm still hungry. Just not for monkeys! Feed me!"

Marik considered saying something rude, like Oh, would you prefer dog, or maybe dolphin?, but thought better of it. He had to be nice to her, whether he liked it or not.

Sierra gave her a sweet smile. "What do you want, sweetie?"

"Food!"

"Obviously…" Marik muttered under his breath. He felt Sierra gently elbow him in the ribcage. He sent her an apologetic look, silently promising no more smart-aleck comments.

She didn't notice, though. She was focused on Kisara. Marik saw, by the sharp, intelligent glint, how her eyes penetrated the girl's exterior, searching inside her mind.

Scary. Had she done that to him, while he hadn't been paying attention? Marik quickly shook the thought.

"What kind of food?" Sierra asked, her voice frighteningly calm and pleasant.

Kisara thought for a moment. "That kind!" She pointed at Marik, a feral grin occupying her smooth, blemish-free face. She winked suggestively, eliciting a blush from the Egyptian teenager.

He looked at the floor, partly to hide his burning face, and partly to show his disinterest. "That doesn't even really make sense." He garbled.

Sierra didn't bother to stifle her chuckle. "Maybe this wasn't the best idea. You should probably go now, Marik. I'll take care of Kisara."

Marik scowled, his flush slowly dissipating. "What am I supposed to do?"

Sierra frowned, approaching Kisara and grabbing the girl's pale hand. With her free hand, she pointed one manicured finger at the door. "Just go to the lounge. I'm willing to bet my life Doc's there instead of in his office doing his work."

Marik nodded, thinking, he has an office? Why would he need one? I've never seen him do any work, and I've been here over a month!

He smirked, leaving the room with a wave at Sierra and Kisara.

..

After Marik's shift…

Marik leaned back against the bottom right metal post of Bakura's bed, eyeing the older boy curiously from his odd angle on the floor. He looked…peaceful. His muscles were relaxed, his face calm. His breathing, reduced to an even rise and fall of his torso.

He was asleep.

The only noise in the room was Bakura's heavy breathing. It was so relaxing! Marik couldn't help but stare at the pale Brit, watch his lips move—ever so faintly—as oxygen entered his body via his slightly agape mouth. Watch his curled, pianists fingers twitch every few minutes. Watch his exhaling breath push a stray strand of hair from his cheek, only for it to fall back as he inhaled, repeating the cycle.

It was entrancing, like a watching burning campfire thrashing in every which way as you wonder, What will it do next?

Marik slithered closer to the other boy's head, crawling along the floor, unable to resist the urge to get a better look at the captivating sight that was Bakura.

He rested his arms on the mattress, propping his chin on his forearm so he could look straight into what would usually be Bakura's cacao eyes, but were now two flaps of flawless, alabaster skin.

Marik smirked at the boy. He looked so utterly helpless. So unlike himself.

And yet Marik was still just as enthralled as the first time they'd semi-met through the very window that daily supplied Bakura's room with so little light, it took a while for Marik's eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness.

But he didn't mind, no matter how much he had to squint. Meeting with the patient was worth it.

Marik's sneer melted into an affectionate smile, though he really didn't notice. He had closed his eyes, letting the Bakura's breathing dominate his senses. He could feel the boy's breath on his left hand. He could hear the serene in-out echoing in his mind. Even with his own lids closed, he could see Bakura's face in his mind, so much contrasting the rude, impatient Bakura he was used to, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. He could smell Bakura's bitter breath (maybe he had eaten an orange or some other kind of citrus fruit before drifting off, Marik concluded).

And he couldn't help but wonder—what did it taste like?

It took a moment for the thought to make sense to Marik, as, at first, the words had seemed foreign and slurred together. But when he realized what he was thinking about, his eyes snapped open, and he fell backward, his back hitting the floor with an agonizing thud.

He blinked up at the ceiling, not daring any other movement. Had he woken Bakura?

After a few seconds of eerie, heavy silence, Marik sighed in relief. Bakura was still asleep.

He let out a breathy laugh. He'd gotten a bit carried away while observing Bakura, that's all. He sat up, rubbing his forehead. His back was still hurting, but he chose to ignore it. He'd endured worse pain without complaint, so why get all teary-eyed over a small bruise?

Bakura entered his line of vision again as he stood up, brushing the dirt off his backside.

The boy really was handsome. He was intelligent, too, unlike the half-wit, ass-scratching kids at his school.

He was also very interesting, personality-wise. Marik had never met someone he'd been so eager to get to know, as he had right-off-the-bat with Bakura. And now that he'd befriended the forbidden patient, he wanted more. He wanted to know even more about Bakura's troubled past. He wanted to put his hand on Bakura's shoulder, to let him know that someone was there for him. He wanted to feel Bakura's hair one more time, run it through his fingers, smell it…play with it.

Marik grabbed two handfuls of his own fair hair, yanking on it angrily. What was with him today? He walks in on Bakura sleeping, and he starts thinking wrong things?

He felt his face burn, but he couldn't tell if it was from anger at himself or embarrassment at his hormonal thoughts, even though he knew no one else would ever have to know about them.

He gritted his teeth and left the room, headed home.

..

You know how when you first wake up, you don't really know you're awake? You're just lying there, in your bed, groggily swimming in your own thoughts?

That's how Bakura felt as his eyes fluttered, barely able to take in his surroundings. He knew it was his room at the Institution, but it was somehow unfamiliar, as if he was still dreaming.

He knew, of course (he was Bakura, for Christ's sake—he didn't miss a beat), that it was his mind waking up, getting back into gear after his rather enjoyable, well-deserved nap. As the gears started turning faster, he began to notice how the shadow cast by his foot hanging off the bed was leaning too far to the right.

It was past five o'clock.

That was his first thought.

Where was the Egyptian boy?

That was his second.

Bakura smirked. It was far too late for him to be here. He'd probably come in, saw Bakura sleeping, and then went home.

He stretched his legs, kicking his sheets to the floor. He ignored it, much preferring to enjoy his post-rest stretch. His underused arms shook, impatient to join in the muscular experimentation.

He ignored that, too.

He let out a yawn, exaggerating it as much as possible by opening his mouth as wide as it would go, and letting out a loud "AHHHHHHCH".

So he wouldn't be seeing the worker-boy today. For some reason, the thought made him frown. Though he would never, ever dare to admit it aloud, the boy provided sufficiently amusing company.

He scowled at the thought, closing his eyes. He needed to clear his mind, change the direction of his thoughts…

Flashback:

Bakura: age six

"Brother?" He heard his sister's small voice from the doorway of his room. "I had a nightmare. Can I come in here with you?"

He grunted his affirmative. Recently, it had become a nightly routine for his sister to crawl out of her own bed and pad down the hall to his room near ten o'clock at night.

He scooted over, scowling as his arm touched the freezing wall on the right side of his bed. It sent a shiver down his spine, and it didn't help when Amane lifted the covers so she could crawl under them herself. She snuggled into his side, and Bakura wasn't surprised that, after a moment, she started crying, enough to soak his shirt.

He didn't bother to ask her what was wrong. She'd told him the very first night she'd come to sleep in his room with him on his tiny, twin bed that she kept having a recurring nightmare that he—her own brother!—turned on everyone in the household and killed them.

How ludicrous.

How could she dare dream such a thing? They were his family—he'd never harm them or anyone else!

Another round of tears came from Amane, this one strong enough to seep through his cotton pajama top and run down his side. He sighed, sliding his arm around his sister to let her know that he was there, and he always would be.

..

Bakura: age seven

He groaned in agony as he felt another blow to his face. He shrunk back, recoiling away from the older boys he'd run into on the school playground.

"What s'matter, kid?" The leader sneered, crossing his arms as the other boy, the lackey, raised his fist for another hit. "Had enough? What a wimp!"

The lackey landed a blow in the smaller boy's gut, eliciting a loud, high-pitched grunt.

His breathing deep and uneven, he reached up to wipe a trail of blood from his chin. The lackey hit his hand away, in the process back-handing the younger boy—seemingly by accident, but the victim knew better.

"Get up and fight!" Yelled the leader, angrily stomping the ground like a small kid having a tantrum.

He blinked lazily, his vision fuzzy. He should…he should protect himself…

He strained his muscles to sit up, feeling pain shoot through his entire body. "Damn…you…" He spat up blood as he slowly crawled to his feet. The lackey, amused, watched, letting him get to his feet without a fight.

The youngest of the boys took a huge breath, preparing himself to fight. He probably could have taken both those losers at the same time, had they not jumped him from behind.

"I'll take…both you bastards without breaking a…sweat!" He pointed at them, challenging either of them to come at him.

"You're pretty much half-dead already, kid. Don't bark louder than you can actually bite." The leader smirked, thinking himself to sound clever.

The youngest chuckled, the effort taking more energy out of him than he'd expected. "I only need…half strength to beat up a bunch of cowards like you!"

With that, the lackey charged. The youngest dodged him with ease, turning just in time to land a kick to the lackey's back, knocking the wind out of him.

"Humph." The youngest sneered, not letting his eyes linger on the hunched over figure that was gasping for air on the ground—his handy work.

He motioned for the leader to come at him, while licking his lips dangerously, to clean the skin around his mouth. His lip was busted open, and a trail of blood was streaming from his nose rather quickly.

The leader charged with a scream, enraged that the "kid" had beaten his comrade. He swung his fist for the younger boy's face.

The white-haired boy caught it with ease, his smirk ever-growing. "Try again."

Another punch, just as predictable as the first. With his free hand, the youngest caught it.

Weaklings, he thought. These losers let a seven-year-old beat them. They're from the junior high, at least!

The younger lifted his knee violently into the older boy's groin, dropping his fists so that he'd fall to the ground, hopefully with a tremendous amount of pain.

Before he left to go back inside to his classroom (he would clean the blood off of himself in the bathroom), he surveyed the scene of the two boys lying in his blood on the grass, both hunched over in pain.

He'd done a good job, considering how much older and bigger they were. He gave a smirk, before turning and walking away.

..

Bakura: age eight

"Shut up! I already told you—I was out late at work!" The white-haired boy heard his dad scream at his mom from downstairs. He'd come home late from work for the third time that week, and it was only Wednesday.

"For three days in a row? You're seeing someone else, Rachel told me!" His mom screamed back. The young boy pulled his pillow over his head, trying to drown out the sound of his parents fighting so he could get some sleep.

"Goddamnit, woman!" There was a loud crash, and a feminine scream. "Just because your girlfriends say something doesn't make it true! How many times have I told you that? Stupid!"

From upstairs, the young boy's eyebrows knit together in frustration. He'd been kept up late into the night all week by his parents yelling at each other, and it always turned into some form of loud, obnoxious fight.

dim-wits.

He squeezed the pillow closer to his head.

It didn't help block out the noise.

He heard the screaming, the yelling, the crashes and thuds through the puffy material. He was tempted to go downstairs and talk some sense into his idiots, but he was pretty sure they wouldn't listen. Too hard-headed and rock-stupid.

He felt a bitter taste enter his mouth as another crashing noise rang through the house.

Couldn't those dumbasses think of something other than themselves? What about poor Amane, who was probably across the hall, whimpering away under her covers? What about him, who had school in the morning? What about each other, the people they had promised themselves to? How was beating the crap out of each other "loving" and "cherishing"?

Morons!

..

Bakura sighed at the memories that had suddenly rushed into his brain. He'd been such a cocky young kid, so disrespectful and insensitive, after he'd been toughened up by bullies during his late primary school days. Too intelligent for his own good, skilled and experienced beyond his years.

Not much had changed.

Well, not for the better, anyway.

Flashback:

Bakura: age eleven

Bakura(1) concentrated on his book, tracing the pages with his eyes as his mind read the small text. He'd been sitting in the same spot of his special room (it didn't have a lock, so he couldn't lock himself into the room, or get locked in) for hours, absorbed in his read.

A knock on the door pulled him from his concentration.

"What?" He said, not looking up from the page.

The door opened, and he didn't have to look up to know it was Sierra. He could tell just by the smell of her perfume—some sort of bitter fruity stench.

"Whatcha reading, baby?" She smiled at him, sitting down at the foot of the bed.

He lifted the book so she could see the cover, not tearing his eyes from the page.

"Oh, my. Bakura, that's a pretty advanced book." She said, honestly amazed.

Bakura scowled. He was a friggin' child genius. Why was she always surprised when he showed his high intelligence?

Currently, he was reading an old textbook he found in Doc's office from the doctor's college days, and taken back to his room. It was the third time he was rereading the book out of boredom.

She frowned at him for a while. Bakura could sense something was bothering her, but, honestly, he didn't care enough to ask about it. Eventually, she spoke up on her own.

"You know we…we all love you, right? We all enjoy having you here." Sierra said. Bakura could hear the hesitance in her voice.

His response was silence. She was lying through her teeth, he just knew it!

"I'm sure…" She paused, swallowing. "I'm sure what happened with Cheryl was an accident, but—"

Bakura tittered. "It wasn't."

Sierra was referring to the nurse, Cheryl, that he'd almost killed last night while she was bringing him his dinner. A second longer with Bakura, and she'd have been dead, her blood staining his hands. Oh, how he felt such longing to draw the blood of an innocent!

It was almost unbearable.

"Bakura…" Sierra's voice was faltering, a sign of tears.

Great.

"If you keep up your recent behavior, we're going to have…to admit you."

"Recent behavior?" Bakura finally looked up from his book, raising an eyebrow at the made-up woman who was just married to the doctor that owned the Institution.

She shook her head. "Don't play dumb, honey. Please."

He smirked, wide and cruel, at her. She was smarter than she let on. "It's my true nature to lust for blood."

"Don't say that. You're very sweet when you want to be." Sierra hung her head, her dark hair masking her entire face from his view.

Bakura scoffed. "Yes, it's called acting. It's a way of manipulating helpless, unexpecting people."

At that moment, Sierra looked up at him. Tears were running down her face, leaving a dark blue trail of mascara. And suddenly, she embraced him. The book he was holding kept their bodies from becoming too close, but Serra didn't seem to mind. She pulled Bakura as close as possible, rocking him in her arms. He might have been comfortable, with her warmth spreading through his body, her heartbeat through his mind, had the hug not been out of pity.

The white-haired boy scowled in disgust.

How dare she pity him!

..

At that memory, Bakura frowned. He could still remember the feeling of the embrace—the sympathy emanating from her very form.

And she still hugged him every day when she came to check up on him, right after the sun fell. But her hugs had stopped feeling like pity a long time ago—now they were just sad and helpless.

Bakura chuckled. How convenient; those were two of his very favorite emotions.

But there was always a feeling underlying in the embraces. Something that might have just resembled caring. He hated that. He hated it very much. He didn't need people to care about him, nor did he want it. He would refuse to mirror the emotion, so what was the point in showing it towards him?

That's right—there wasn't one.

Bakura felt his mind trail off into another direction. The face of the Egyptian entered his mind.

Again?

How peculiar.

He let his mind wander for a while, curious about what it might tell him. He started remembering some conversations between himself and the worker. They usually revolved around either of the boy's pasts, or maybe a funny story the Egyptian had to tell about his day at work or school.

Of course, Bakura saw past the younger boy's charade of happiness. Inside he was broken, his heart battered and bruised, impaled through the middle.

It was odd; Bakura had never met someone so much like a thermos of hot, chicken noodle soup.

No, seriously.

The Egyptian was hard on the outside (the thermos), yet all jumbled and screwed up on the inside (the noodles and chicken), and yet he was comforting to be around (the warm broth).

Bakura blinked, confused at his own thoughts. A…thermos of soup?

No matter how true, the thought was really, really weird…

Hey, wait. Why was he thinking about that boy again, anyway? What a waste of time. Bakura shook his head, deciding it was time for his mind to change directions again.

Before he could find a new subject, though, his room door opened.

His head snapped to it, expecting to see the dark-skinned boy walk in, sheepishly grinning, and apologizing for being so damn late.

But no. It was Sierra.

He frowned, not bothering to hide his disappointment.

Whoa! Wait, wait! Disappointment? He wasn't disappointed just because he couldn't see that boy! He glanced at the window, noticing that the sun had sunk down below the horizon while he'd been caught in his memories.

"Hey, Bakura." Sierra greeted with a smile. She walked over to him, planting a kiss on his forehead. He scowled at the affectionate action.

She ignored it. "How are you feeling today, honey?"

He blinked, almost letting a mumbled "confused" slip out. Instead, he just grunted. He sat up, knowing that Sierra would want to talk for a while. She plopped down beside him on the bed, laying her head back against the wall.

"Jeez, today has been on hell of a work out." She said, her voice clouded with fatigue. "We got a new patient today. She decided it to be wise to try and make out with one of the workers. Looking back on it, it was kind of funny, but Marik didn't think so."

Bakura's eyes widened in surprise. Marik? That was the name of the Egyptian worker that had been visiting him. He knew it was an accident that Sierra let his name slip, but that didn't stop his stomach from roiling.

Sierra continued talking. "I had to literally pry her off of him! And then, she was so focused on him, I had to send him out of the room so I could get her full attention."

Bakura felt a disgusting feeling towards the girl enter the pit of his stomach, but he ignored it. It was probably just because she was obviously nothing but filthy cur.

Noticing the odd look on Bakura's face, Sierra frowned. "You okay, 'Kura?"

He scowled at the friendly nickname. "Yes. Carry on."

Sierra continued telling stories about the new girl for about half an hour—things like how she tried to get a piggyback ride from one of four nurses and Doc, or how she'd wanted to drink from the toilet, claiming it was cleaner than water from the sink.

She glanced down at her watch, and gasped when she saw how late it was. "Oh, no! I've got to go. I'll see you tomorrow."

As usual, she gave him that hug full of underlying emotion, along with his two favorite emotions, and left the room, leaving him to his pounding silence once again.

All Bakura could think about for the next few minutes, before he fell asleep again, was how much he disliked the new girl.

A/N:

1: I used his name in this flashback, because it's after he came to the Institution. It wasn't in the others, because he doesn't remember it.

I really like how this chapter turned out. If you review, it motivates me to write more, so if you actually want me to continue, please let me know!