Title: Track 06

Author: BMB

Rating: PG 13

Summery: (one-shot) Mildly warped. Seto/Ryou, if you look really hard.


What happens when there's no place to go but down?


You know, sometimes I could almost make the mistake of thinking you actually care. Just sometimes. But then you go and ruin it, by smirking like you know what I'm thinking, or spitting out some nastily sarcastic comment, or even just by looking me in the eye. In your eyes, there is everything but what I want to see. What I want to see is even a small spark of understanding. What do I actually see? Apathy. Amusement. You don't give a fuck. You never have, have you? Then again, you never care about anything. It would hurt you too fucking much, right? If it got taken away from you, you wouldn't be able to handle it. That's why you treat everything around you with disdain. I've never been able to figure out how you can be so possessive, and yet so uncaring. You control everything around you, but leave so much up to the people around you. And they have no fucking idea how much they could hurt you if they tried.

But I do, don't I?

I guess I'll have to do.


Rain. The rain seems to be a constant in my life, for some reason. It leaks into everything. Into me, even. Into everything I do, until I miss it when the sun shines. How is that? The people around me laugh at how I suffer in the cold. It seeps into my bones, until moving my fingers is painful. And they laugh at the gloves I wear, with the scarf and knee-high socks, and the way I curl up to keep warm. Oh, they don't mean for it to hurt. It just does. One of those things, huh? Not worth getting upset about, but the constant poking and prodding about it just opens the wound more... and more... and more. And no one notices. How they would laugh if they knew how much I loved the rain. How it is always there. Even on the bright and warm days. Always. The rain, drumming down in my head, and me not able to stop it.

Truth is, I don't want too.

Because when you laugh, it doesn't hurt.


Behind your back, they try and fit you in one of their boxes.

Antisocial. But that's not true, is it? It can't be. If you're antisocial, what would that make me? Easy. They figured that one out ages ago. Simple, really. Loner. Back to you, though. Bi-polar, for your moodswings. One second, you can tolerate rest of the world, the next, you just can't. I think you can control it, you just don't want too. But I can't really blame you, can I? The world is a bit much to bare. Schizophrenic? Never really have been able to pin that one down. But then, I'm concidered one, so I can't really tell. But they have a point, don't they? You're one person with the part of your world you hate, and another with the part you love. Schizophrenic? I am fucking schizophrenic. You are not.

And then there's the wierd middle person you are with me.

Everyone says we go well together, that we look cute. In reality, they think that since we're both a few steps from going off the deep end, we might as well keep each other company.

We don't fit in their boxes. We don't care.


What happens when you've got no place to go but down?

You fall, jump, or get pushed.

And hope someone's there to catch you.


End-