This was actually the second part of the prologue for The Scent Of Roses, but is now a prelude/companion to it instead. I guess it's because I found a poem my friend Arran wrote one day (that I STOLE!! evil snickers), and it completely changed how that part was written, and I figured "Oh stuff it, it wouldn't fit in with the rest so lets make it another story." Please read TSOR to make sense of this. I'm not sure if I like this fic or not...
...
Yes, that poem is the one he's thinking of. I'll put all the words at the end.
It's supposed to be one chapter, but I think it needs a bit more to cover it... an epilogue for a prologue... something not right about that.
Summary: Prelude/companion to The Scent Of Roses, about the two members of the main cast who didn't show up for a long time, and what the hell happened to them. Dreams becoming reality... Introspective and slightly angsty.
Warnings: Contemplation of suicide, might be some bad language, deliberate ambiguity that may cause confusion,
'"Life, fragile like porcelain. So easily broken by the smallest hairline crack that can open wide like a gaping cliff edge - a place to end life when it's broken too badly to be fixed."'
It wasn't exactly a cliff edge, but it was close enough. And it would serve the same purpose.
'Why do I always think of that when I dream this?' he asked himself, leaning against the cold concrete. It seemed... appropriate, certainly. But he just wished he could remember where he'd seen it. It was seemingly depressing, but he always thought of it as more melancholy. It suited his mood.
'"Thoughts drift in and out of my head subconciously."'
Wasn't that the very basic nature of a dream? Subconcious thoughts? Organising things you'd worried about during the day? Or was it pointless - a way of imagining things while you slept?
'"Whether life has a point, or if it is completely useless in every way."'
How true. That was what he usually asked himself when he had this dream, instead of...
"My god," he whispered to himself in disgust, his hair fluttering in the rose-scented breeze. "I'm dreaming about the nature of a dream."
But it made him laugh. A soft, weary chuckle, one that was rarely heard. He wasn't the sort who laughed a lot. He was more... quiet. Self- contained. Practically conservative. Perhaps that was why he often dreamed this dream, why at least one night a week he did what he was doing now - climbing up on the concrete wall at the top of a multi-storey carpark, watching the twinkling of the stars so far above him, and the twinkling of the headlights, streetlights, so far below him.
'"Only one chance to find out before something goes wrong, before you're back on that cliff edge, looking down, seeing what could be your future. Never knowing which to choose."'
In his dream, this was his future, his only escape, his only freedom. In real life, it would have been the same if he'd been able. If he'd been able to escape his tormentor - the one that held his body hostage, who lived inside his mind - he would have done it, would have killed them both before anything worse happened either of them.
But it was a tough choice. Repeat a dream - where all that happened was he woke up in bed, rolled over and dozed off again - for real, and actually die, never wake up again, or live a life that he couldn't control.
'"If things could get better or just worse with time. Watching every second tick by, still wondering.'"
Things changed. Sometimes better, sometimes worse. Sometimes he could go for a month without a peep, sometimes not even five minutes.
But time wasn't a constant in dreams: it slowed and speeded up, often without anyone realising. He'd been stood, staring down at the slowly emptying street below, for what felt like hours, but might have only been minutes or seconds. It didn't matter, it always emptied. He wouldn't move until it did. Wouldn't move until he could see the hard concrete, usually covered by a tide of humanity and machinery. Now, it was draining away, like a tide turning away from the bottom of a cliff, revealing the sharp rocks below.
He looked up at the stars again - and frowned.
'That's... odd.' He could always see the stars in his dreams. No matter what the dream was, the stars were always visible. But now, thick black storm clouds were hiding them, as though protecting them from the sight of what he would do.
In compensation, the lights below grew brighter, and the breeze stronger - filling the air with the scent of roses. A scent that didn't fade, even when the heavens opened and the sky weeped for him. He held out his arms, watching the rain bounce off them as his fringe sank into his eyes.
'I like the rain.' He always had - it was just one of those random, melancholy things he loved. And this rain was warm and clinging, like -
- blood.
He froze, the breath hitching in his lungs. Where had that come from? The rain was nothing like blood. He'd probably been spending too much time with his yami - like he could get away from him. This was getting ridiculous, a little too much. He was just going to jump, finish this dream. He didn't like it when things changed- it usually meant something bad.
'"Travelling towards light or dark. Light seems calming, dark draws you nearer."'
There was a shout - a faint voice shouting his name. It echoed through the building, anger and fear and sadness following it. A familiar voice that he didn't trust as far as he could throw the speaker.
Usually. But this was a dream - and a severely distorted one at that. Perhaps it would be all right.
But he stared down at the ground, looking at the lights. Stared at the sky, looking at the clouds. Light seems calming, but dangerous. If he chose that route, he wouldn't survive. Darkness draws people nearer, it could be safer. But he didn't know what was beyond it...
'"Giving in because you no longer care whether it's good or bad."'
He shrugged, listening to the clatter of footsteps that followed the echoes, smelling - practically tasting - the roses. With a sad smile, he spread his arms - and dropped.
'"Plunging downwards, gaining speed. Time stands still."'
He dropped silently, watching the sky move back as the skyscrapers closed in on him, his rain-drenched clothes dragging him down all the faster. If he reached out a little further, he could touch the walls.
He felt as though he was going to fall forever, tumbling through eternity, a tragic figure who was going to die and didn't care.
And then eternity shortened itself dramatically as a strong arm snatched at his wrist, slamming him into the side of the building, while that familar voice growled curses and tried to haul him up. He gasped as his muscles burned, as his back was scraped up the concrete. There was a faint roaring sound in his ears.
He clung to the hands pulling him up, looking up at a familiar face - the face he saw whenever he looked into the mirror. And then he swung into the wall again, and the roaring noise got louder. Then everything went black as he fell again - this time into unconciousness.
The second white-haired man scowled at the boy he'd just saved. "What were you thinking?" he ranted, nursing aching muscles in his arms. "Were you trying to kill yourself? Of course he was... stupid question, I know."
He was talking to himself, merely to hear the sound of a(n almost) human voice. if a casual spectator had come along at that moment, they might have thought that Yami no Bakura was actually worried about his human host, if they ignored the fact that he was trying to scowl angrily, while his eyes betrayed his real emotions.
When he'd awoken at the base of this place, forced to stay behind, while his hikari walked on, he'd been worried. If there was anything that could get him out of his host body, he knew about it. Sheer determination on his part, or - from research they had done about a year ago - strong alcohol, or the right spell, those were the only things that could shift him. But someone had used a different spell, a stronger one, to force him away from his hikari. He'd lost precious time breaking through. The fact that there was now a huge hole in the wall where he'd summoned a Morphing Jar to make him an entrance was irrelevant. All he'd cared about was making sure that he would still be waking up the next day.
"It's not fair," he informed the unconcious boy sourly, as he shredded his jumper to bandage the cuts. "If anything happens to me, you're fine, and you'd probably throw a party. But if anything happens to you, we'll both die." He scowled suspiciously. "Is that what you were planning?"
Not surprisingly, there was no reply.
Grumbling a few interesting words about useless hikari's who sleepwalk up buildings in the rain and throw themselves off, he slumped down against the wall. He'd been scared, and he wasn't sure what had just happened. His mind rewinded the past few minutes, and the way Bakura's eyes had been when he was pulling him back up - when he'd been saving his god damn life. They were.. flat for a lack of a better word, as though someone had sucked the light and life out of them. Flat in the way of someone who'd nothing inside them. He'd seen someone like that once, a dead man walking. The thought of his hikari looking like that wasn't pleasant. The man had thrown himself under a train the day after he'd seen him.
With a groaning sigh, he stretched, before sinking into Bakura's body. Instantly, he regretted it: the boy's body was a mass of pain. But it was the only way he was going to get them both home, so he focused on moving the sore body, of dragging it down the ramps and steps to his impromptu exit. Swaying slightly, he paused on the thick concrete wall, looking around nervously.
Finally, he moved on, thinking about the events of the night. And for some reason, he found himself mumbling the end of a poem he hadn't heard in centuries, a poem he didn't even realise he remembered.
["Time stands still. Until it's over, and there's no more pain for you to endure. Black, stillness, everything ends for good."]
'Yes little hikari, that's you. Apart from the ending.' Because he flatly refused to believe to that he was being kind to the boy, he was just trying to get home.
He rooted through Bakura's pockets until he found his wallet, and the number for the cab company that he used. After calling the cab company - and feeding the damn phone-box to his Man-Eater Bug - he slumped against the wall again, biting back a yelp as grazes re-opened aginst the brickwork. Maybe he should have a bath when he got home and bandage the grazes before he went to bed. While he felt that he could just collapse, he doubted that Bakura would appreciate it if he got blood everywhere. And a bath would be welcome right now... (the shower had gone the way of the phone box a long time ago, much to his hikari's annoyance.)
He buried his hands in his pockets, and let the rain soothe him. Both of them liked the rain, for no real reason. It was a constant in this country, as opposed to Egypt, where the rain rarely came. And, so long as he was dressed appropriately, he loved the feel of it.
Why was he dressed for rain? He looked down at his body, at the long black coat, the scarf. Realising that his hands were cold, he rummaged in his pockets for the gloves that he'd felt a few minutes ago. He was in the middle of pulling them on, when something smooth and flat dug into his palm.
"What - ?" And then he had to grin. It was little peice of paper with Bakura's hand writing on it. A short message saying simply "If you're reading this, stay out of trouble. Even if you're not reading this, stay out of trouble."
Just... typical Bakura. Doing something that would seem perfectly normal to him, but made everyone else smile. Like asking his darker half to be normal and stay out of trouble.
'Almost enough to make me like him,' he thought wryly. He flipped the note over and wrote a few lines on the back, before slipping it into his pants pocket.
Then he flung up an arm as headlights swung around the corner, half-blinding him. Ah yes, his taxi. It was a shame that it was so obviously a taxi. He would have "borrowed" it if it hadn't. Maybe his Bug would still be hungry, disposing of the driver.
'Or maybe I'd just let the fool live. It would depend on my mood.'
Moderation! From the mad-man everyone immediately labelled as trouble and a danger to society. Oh how Bakura would laugh if he could hear that!
He fumbled with his home address for a moment - he had to dig around Bakura's memory for it. He could walk there from nearly any point in the city, and had been able to for years. But after all this time, he still didn't know what it was... yes, Bakura would have loved to be around for this. Especially since he would get to see his normally fearless yami voluntarily ride in his most hated modern invention: a car. Give him a good motor bike any day. It would be faster and safer, and wouldn't give him the choking sense of claustrophobia that was rising up in him even as he looked at it.
But, despite - or perhaps even because of - his misgivings, the spirit clambered slowly and painfully onto the backseat, and slumped against the headrest. This evening had been so strange, so confusing. All he really wanted was to go home, climb into bed and sleep. Of course, he'd lock the doors and windows so they wouldn't have a repition of this little incident...
[Seatbelt...] a soft voice mumbled in his head. [Where are we? Why are we in a car?] Then, more suspiciously, less sleepily: [What have you done now?]
[You just tried to jump off one of those ridiculous stone things. Don't you ask me what I've done!]
There was a long pause, then a soft little [Oh.] A mental sigh. [I'm still dreaming then aren't I? It was that jumping dream... Goodnight yami-sama...]
[Yami-sama? Jumping dream? Bakura...]
There was no reply, but the driver started looking worried when his white-haired passenger started growling deep in his throat.
[Black... stillness.. everything ends for good...] They were nearly home when the sleepy thought came through the mind-link. [I forgot how the rest of it goes.]
Yami Bakura payed - yes payed - the cab-driver, before tottering stiffly up the path to the house. [I know that one. Where'd you hear it?] he asked curiously.
[Can't remember... What now?]
[You can go back to sleep. I shall be taking a bath and bandaging up these scrapes.] Then, peevishly, because it was his hikari's fault, he added [My arms hurt.]
[I shall be properly apologetic in the morning once I've woken up,] Bakura informed him, his half-concious state making him reckless. [As this is a dream, I shall just go back to sleep. If you remember that last line, could you tell me?]
He winced as he wriggled out of the coat and scarf. [Of course. And in return you can explain what the hell you were thinking.]
[In the morning.]
[In the morning.]
He was severely tempted to just throw the coat over a chair and have done with it, but his hikari's neat-freak streak was rubbing off on him. Groaning, he hung the coat on the peg, then leaned into it for a few moments, just relaxing in the warmth of the fabric and the scent of warm human.
Which was suddenly replaced by a less reassuring scent - a rich, cloying scent that stifled his senses. Flowery, clogging. He reeled back coughing, and tripped. There was a sickening crack, and the pain in his head intensified. Darkness flickered at the dges of his vision, and relaxed into it's grasp. Darkness didn't bother him. Darkness was safe... an escape from the pain...
Bakura sat up, nursing his head. He would have preferred to remain in his soul room, but the thought of leaving his body with no one inside it was worse than the thought of his yami being in charge of it.
"Why is it so dark?" he asked the air as he clambered slowly to his feet. He could barely see. Of course: his yami. He disliked the lights and never turned them on. But Bakura was the sort who didn't enjoy collecting bruises, so he felt along the wall until he found the light switch.
"What...? Why am I down here?" He was awake he was sure, but the night was slightly hazy. He'd been dreaming, and he'd hurt his head. That was clear enough - the light was stabbing through him and turning a head ache into a migrane.
Blinking, he rubbed his head.
"Tea." he announced. "That's what I need. A nice hot cup of tea." As he headed to the kitchen, wrinkling his nose ('Roses? I don't remember bringing any roses in.'), he slipped on hand into his pockets.
"What on earth - "
It was a peice of paper, the one he'd written a message on for his yami. It was a vain attempt he knew, but at least he'd tried. It made him feel less guilty. He flipped it over automatically, and frowned at the inky-millipede- death handwriting of his darker half. The kettle had all ready boiled, and he was half way through his mug before he'd deciphered it into recognisable language.
... a gaping cliff edge, a place to end life when it's broken too badly to be fixed. Bakura has one. A place to end his life. I never thought his life was that bad. It seems I was wrong.
Travelling towards light or dark. Light seems calming, darkness draws you nearer. Giving in because you no longer care whether it's bad or good...
That was mine. I must have been like him at one point or another, but chose a different way. He chose light, I chose darkness.
Black, stillness, everything ends for good.
Or bad. Nothing is ever truly black or white. Just darker and lighter shades of grey.
But never knowing if it was the right choice.
I appreciate I've probably confused people by using too many "he's," but I refuse to call Bakura "Ryou". He's Kura now, and all ways will be. Just because he has a yami doesn't mean that I have to call his yami by his name. :P
Here, as promised, is the whole poem in all it's un-annotated version.
Life, fragile like porcelian. So easily broken by the smallest hairline crack that can open wide like a gaping cliff edge.Wonderfully angsty. Arran is cool. Shame the same can't be said of this fic. I have a feeling that this is the one that will get me flamed. Please don't. Constructive criticism yes, flames no.
A place to end life when it is broken too badly to be fixed.
Thoughts drift in and out of my head subconciously.
Whether life had a point or if it is completely useless in every way.
Only one chance to find out before somthing goes wrong and you're back on that cliff edge, looking down, seeing what could be your future.
Never knowing which to choose.
If things will get better or just worse with time.
Watching every second tick by, still wondering.
Travelling towards light or dark. Light seems calming, dark draws you nearer.
Giving in because you no longer care whether it's good or bad.
Plunging downwards, gaining speed.
Time stands still.
Until it's over, and there's no pain for you to endure.
Black, stillness, everything ends for good.
But never knowing if it was the right choice...