Penumbra Darkening
Cautions: Angst. Lots. Fondness from unexpected sources.
Inescapable disclaimer: I own nothing.
Chapter 3
Time, even in small passages, brings about remarkable transformations. It brings about not-so-remarkable ones as well, and among these was undoubtedly the change in state that had taken place over some hours in this, the intensive care ward of Domino's primary hospital. It had began in chaos, in the frenzy so familiar to that place, with the arrival of one unconscious boy and a small, very worried cluster of his friends. That excitement had slowly given way to a simmering tension, and the sick anxiety of waiting while the deep, neatly made gashes that had sent him here were patched and the lost blood replaced. As a souvenir of that time, and of the long fearful observation that had followed, prints of hands and nosetips still remained where they'd been pressed to the glass of the room's single window. And there were quite a few of those – a fact which had proved unnervingly strange to the well-weathered staff who'd seen this particular patient in. One look at the injuries gave a clear measure not only of their gravity and nature, but of their cause…what, then, of the group who'd brought him in? Their concern and pain at the state of their companion had marked them as his friends, and the simple grim truth was that rarely did those who ended up here with injuries like his have such support.
Still, as incongruent as it all seemed, the little flock had unquestionably counted him as close, for they had lingered outside the room for hours, disregarding the reminders (given at regular intervals) that there was little they could do for now, and that their friend would not likely wake up till the next day. The smallest of the gaggle, a bright-eyed boy who seemed to have come with his older brother – the resemblance had turned a few heads – had been the last to go, stubbornly remaining in one of the stiff wooden chairs outside the observation window till finally all visitors to the hospital had been sent home for the day.
And now the spectrum had been run fully, from the rushing madness that began the episode to the lonely silence that had descended now, cold as the now-halfhearted snowfall outside and broken only by the whirrs and pinging monotones of modern medicine at its finest. The last scheduled check-in of the day had been hours ago; it was merely a formality in such a case as this, and there had been little for the orderly to do but check the monitors and make note, for the records, of what they reported. That was all that was required; however, she, like the one whose turn it had last been to look in on this one, could not help but pause and gaze at the strange object that had been the cause of some controversy earlier.
"You can't leave that thing in there with him! That spirit---he's crazy, right? I mean, who knows what he'll do!" It was a surprisingly good point, coming from Jounouchi – who, while he couldn't be faulted on his good intentions, was not known for thinking things through. The truth to the words had not missed Yugi, who at them had frowned in his own well-meaning confusion at the item he'd unthinkingly taken with him as the paramedics brought Ryou down to the ambulance waiting outside.
"The spirit is probably even weaker than he is, right now." That had been the former pharaoh, tone resolute and a reassuring hand placing itself on Yugi's shoulder. "The Ring has powers of its own, and as long as it recognizes Bakura-kun as its owner, those powers will naturally serve him. He will almost definitely heal faster with the Ring near." Now Yugi blinked, memory drawing forth confirmation of the theory, and nodded quickly.
"That's right! Ever since I've had the puzzle, whenever I get sick, I get better a lot faster than I used to before!" With the focus of the conversation coming to powers that Jounouchi had never professed to understand, he had backed off, and in the end the Ring had been left on Ryou's little bedside table with instructions that it, being a precious possession to the wounded boy, not be moved from there by anyone.
So there it laid still, provoking some curiosity amongst those who'd treated him – it looked like some kind of relic, hardly a common thing for a boy to hold as precious as his friends had implied, and both its origins and purpose were an utter mystery. Still, there were more important things in the hospital than one patient's odd-looking belonging, and by the next day it would fade from the idle conversations it had briefly held a place in.
This likely would have been quite different if there had been witnesses to what transpired in the little room just past midnight, but by then its inhabitant had been deemed stable and the checkups ceased to avoid disturbing his much-needed sleep. And so there was no one to see the golden ring glimmer where it sat, shining in the dimmed light of the room – and no one to see the much more remarkable phenomenon which followed. Suddenly, and with no explanation, the population of that room had doubled, and beside the bed stood a lanky, unsteady figure who could have passed as the sleeper's twin. He had not known for certain, upon his emergence, that they would not be disturbed; he had not cared, either. Such concerns were far from his mind now, which still ached and wavered as it had before he'd blacked out. Now, at last, he was conscious once more…and once again, the sight before him was painful in ways he didn't know how to name.
There was Ryou, more delicate and fragile in his appearance than Bakura would have imagined possible. He'd been dressed in some pale patterned gown of standard hospital fashion, and the impossibly white bedsheets were pulled up to his chest. The bed was a suitable size for an adult; in it, Ryou seemed small, wispy, scarcely there at all. The overbearing impression that the slightest touch might just shatter the boy was only furthered by the array of tubes and wires that ensnared him – one there in his arm, another running along his finger, the pair stemming from beneath the gown – and fed into the containers and the screens arrayed at the other side of the bed. Those earned Bakura's silent gaze only briefly before it was returned to the unconscious figure before him, who even in his sleep was holding onto a staggeringly pained expression. The whole picture left the spirit with a dull, choking ache that gripped his chest and would not let go, even as he reached back and found one of the twin chairs within the room, pulling it to bedside and collapsing into it. The bed was low; seated, he still looked down on his sleeping host, who showed no signs of recognition or awareness.
He was alive, though, and in the stunned aftermath of all that had happened, Bakura could not spare the energy to deny what a relief that was. Ryou had not died, and he was glad, and there was no point in telling himself otherwise. A long time would be passed that way, sitting silently beside the bed, before he brought himself to confront the part of this fact that did earn thought: namely, why?
It was senseless. Ryou had always been far too weak for his tastes. Intolerably. Too weak, and too unruly. From the beginning, as soon as he was aware of the spirit's presence, he rebelled. That was an annoyance, and it was doubled by the weakness of the fight he put up. Had the boy truly resisted, it would have been harder for Bakura to hold onto control, but at least he would have been able to possess some respect for his host. But that had never been the case; even when he seemed firmly opposed to the spirit or his intentions, he always submitted in the end. And when that opposition was weak, or nonexistent? He was a puppet. A willing puppet. He cooperated more with Bakura than those around him had ever realized, and somehow that was the worst part of all.
Because, Bakura acknowledged now, Ryou was too good of a puppet, when he could have been so much more. Had he fought back, had he stood up for himself, he could have been strong. He had the intellect, and whether he realized it or not he had a great deal of cunning too. But he was always too willing to submit, and had remained perpetually weak as a result. It was a painfully frustrating thing to witness.
And he was kind. Ra, he was kind. Cripplingly so. This, the spirit mused, was another thing about Ryou that he had always hated, that had kept him from developing the sort of strength of which he could otherwise have been capable. He seemed to lack what to Bakura was a fundamental instinct: the desire to hurt one's enemy. Bakura was crueler than Ryou than he really needed to be, and he knew it. There were wounds that had probably scarred for life, inflicted in anger or frustration or simple, aimless violence. And yet, never once had Ryou hit back. As time had gone on, he stopped even defending himself, and merely took the blows he was dealt. Tending to the injuries they left behind was something done quietly and efficiently, after the spirit's wrath had passed.
It went beyond the refusal to return any of that abuse. Far beyond. Bad enough that the boy seemed bewildered by even the notion of fighting back; he aided Bakura. He helped him. As though he was a dear friend, and not a source of constant torment and aggression. This was largely a matter of little things – of focusing on the spirit's needs before his own, even when no demands were made; of treating him to inexplicable bits of kindness, like the time Bakura had stormed from the house in a particularly bad mood and returned home to find Ryou setting a beautiful dinner on the table. Not for himself, but for the spirit. To…'help him feel better', he'd said. Stupid. Stupid things like that. Perhaps the worst thing about all of it was just how little sense it all made. Bakura did not enjoy confusion any more than anyone else did, after all.
And so he lashed out. In his confusion, in his rage and frustration and annoyance, he tortured his unceasingly gentle host. In the tragic irony of making wishes only to find the results less pleasing than expected, he had made some progress. The sweet innocence had faded, and the tenderness dimmed. Just as Bakura had wanted from the start, for it was impossible to deal with such unfamiliar things. The fiendish twist, however, was that they were not replaced with ferocity, strength, or any sense of self-preservation. They were not replaced at all, and Ryou had become the empty shell from whom Bakura had run from the day before.
Maybe, he wondered, eyes still trained unwaveringly on his host's limp form, it was the emptiness that had brought this to pass. If so, Ryou could hardly be blamed. To live as such a thing – Bakura could not imagine it, and supposed that were he ever reduced to one, he would likely follow the same course his gentle light had. Whether this was born of emptiness or pain scarcely mattered in the end, though; one way or another, it was Bakura's doing, and he knew it. It had been his words, his treatment, that had made life so unappealing that Ryou had chosen to discard it. All this he understood, and yet he had not been prepared for the overwhelming remorse and guilt that were now setting in.
There was no reason for those, after all, or so argued his rational mind. Ryou was just another vessel. Dispensable, a fact he had pointed out to the boy before. And Bakura had been able to justify all the cruelty and sadism with the simple belief that he hated his host.
But if that was all true, this should be painless. An inconvenience at worst.
It wasn't.
Instead it left the spirit bitterly pained, and even more bitterly confused. And every time his eyes fell on the wounded figure beside him, the ache pierced deeper.
The storm of thoughts that haunted him now could have consumed the rest of the night, but before they could progress further they were interrupted by the faintest stirrings of life, announcing some still-infant recovery in the form of a few soft, discontented murmurs and little movements that barely rustled the sheets. Trace as the signs were, they sufficed to break Bakura's already-derailed train of thought, attention diverting from those troubling questions to the present moment. There was silence then, and he wondered briefly whether he'd imagined those stirrings – only to be reassured to the contrary when at last Ryou moved again, wincing and turning restlessly. All the while, the spirit did not breathe, staring on with a wordless anxiety that was, like so much of this experience, starkly new to him.
At last, slowly, Ryou opened his eyes. Once, twice he blinked, weary gaze slowly focusing on the ceiling and its dimmed fluorescent lights. That was all there was for another moment, and then his eyes began to wander. To his wrists, which he lifted from his sides to examine, uncovering the ugly realities of stitches and butterfly clips. To the IV tube in his arm, and the packet it stemmed from. To the monitors that tracked his existence, counting out breaths or beats of the heart…and finally to Bakura, who all that while hadn't dared to move.
There, he stared for a long, long time, the pair of them identical in their unblinking silence.
Then, in a manner both sudden and gentle, Ryou began to weep.
The sounds were too faint, too soft to draw the attention of any wandering technicians; they were reserved, in nature's cruelest justice, for Bakura alone. And they paralyzed him; he could summon up no response, no words or gestures to soothe the gently crying boy. Nor, unexpectedly, could he find it in him to tell Ryou to shut up, as was more befitting his nature. He was helpless, and did the only thing he could manage: he sat, in silence, till at last the sobs had dissipated to ragged sniffles from which Ryou was slowly breaking free. At last he had quieted once more, and the machines to his side resumed their role as the room's sole source of noise.
Time, as it always did, passed. Silence reigned. Bakura couldn't have named how long it was before at last Ryou spoke, voice thin and hoarse.
"I'm sorry."
The part of Bakura's self that had remained intact throughout this acknowledged that, and noted that he had plenty to apologize for. The trouble he'd caused the spirit; the strain on his strength, physical and emotional; the work he'd been subjected to, of summoning up his host's friend so he could be brought here and treated. All of this registered in his mind, but none of it made its way into speech, which still remained frozen for him.
His possessor's continued silence gave Ryou cause for worry, for his own sake as well as for Bakura's; the spirit was upset, a fact which traditionally brought suffering upon both of them. Anticipating a strike, or some other assault, he fell quiet and still once more and averted his eyes to the far wall. He had lived. The cuts had been neat, exact, deep…and he had lived. Nothing would ever change, and that realization was nearly enough to break him down anew. He held it at bay, though, unwilling to give in to tears again so soon – especially now, when he'd need his awareness about him to handle whatever attack he received.
But he waited now, and the wait stretched on for agonizingly long minutes, uninterrupted by the blow he'd prepared himself for. Uninterrupted, too, by any sound from Bakura. Finally, the suspense was unbearable, and Ryou's concern for the spirit won out over that for himself. Tentatively he fumbled for the lever that angled the bed, drawing it into an upright position so he could better see the shadow-obscured eyes of his dark companion.
"Bakura?"
Nothing.
"Bakura…are…are you all right?"
The question had been strange, at odds with what seemed natural for the two; the answer was doubly so, when it came. Not in words, nor in the attack Ryou'd been bracing himself for, but in a sharp bowing of the spirit's head, shoulders hunched and and tensing in a few short jerks. Ryou, bewildered, struggled to lean nearer that he might understand what was going on.
To understand this was something Bakura would have liked as well, but he had no such luck. Heedless of his desperate confusion, and insistent orders that his body stop this nonsense, his attempts to speak produced only pained, hitching gasps. He knew what this was, or what it would be called as soon as tears entered the picture. That knowledge made it no easier to accept that he – he! – was now very nearly crying, and had no idea why or how to make it stop.
And there was Ryou, gentle Ryou, calling up the strength to lift one bandaged hand and set it softly upon the spirit's shoulder. As though he were the wounded one, as though he was the one in need of comfort and care…He tried to jerk free of the touch, for it only made the constriction in his throat grow tighter, but could not bring himself to break the tentative contact that had formed there. He was speaking now, murmuring in his soft lilt of a voice; the words were unclear, but their tone was unreasonably kind. Telling him not to worry, perhaps, or apologizing again; eventually he quieted once more, just as Bakura's own voice was finding its footing at last. The words that came forth, though – he would look upon them later and wonder, mystified, where they had come from.
"You…you have…no right to…" A cough, attempting to clear the imaginary obstruction, and in response a soothing little pet on that shoulder that nearly ended the sentence right there. He found speech again, though, and shaking, continued.
"You have no right…to leave…to leave me this way." He went to grab at one of the boy's wrists, to emphasize his point, but caught himself before he could do so and merely dropped his hand limply into the rumpled sheets. There Ryou stared a moment, utterly stunned, before his eyes flickered back to a countenance still hidden in shade and unruly cascades of white. He could not speak, but Bakura eventually could, voice trembling worse with each successive word.
"You…are mine, Ryou…and you can't…you can't leave like that."
The words, which hung solidly in the air in the silence that followed, seemed to have exhausted Bakura. Still, he might have won out in this struggle against himself, if not for the recurring truth of just what sort of a person Ryou was. He watched Bakura shake and struggle with himself for only a few moments before gently squeezing the shoulder his hand laid on, and slowly lifting its counterpart to rest upon the spirit's other arm.
"Bakura."
The unexpected calm shortness of his light's tone made Bakura look up, only to be met with a disarmingly gentle gaze, exhausted but not too weary to radiate concern.
"I'm sorry."
Bakura shook.
"I shouldn't have done this…" He trailed off then, for he'd noticed the way the pale hand upon the bed had clenched into a quivering fist around a handful of the linens, and he laboriously dropped his own to rest soothingly atop it. The response was another hitched cough; Bakura seemed to be falling apart before his eyes, and so his own pain was for the moment put aside. And Bakura? He knew this was happening. He knew that he would probably never understand why, and moreover he knew that there was something heartbreaking about the kindness Ryou was sparing him. Not just annoying, or frustrating. Positively heartbreaking, a word he'd never sincerely applied to any pain before this one. Heedless of that sting, however, Ryou gave no sign of ceasing. Anything but, it seemed, for now his thumb stroked comfortingly over the back of Bakura's hand, as easily as if the spirit were his dearest friend. Even Ryou could not easily explain that part, but he didn't see any reason to try. This was what it was, inexplicable a thing as that could be, and so for now he just soothed his tormented companion as well as he could.
It was working, and too well. Bit by bit, Bakura was easing, and as he did, the defenses he'd instilled against his own weakness were crumbling. He could not even summon up the pride to be embarrassed with himself now, and at last everything simply gave way.
It happened faster than Ryou could see. Bakura was at his side, head down…and then that head was buried against the light's chest, strong arms fiercely wound about his waist. It was possession, plain and simple – just as he'd said. Ryou was his. Perhaps that was the most painful part of this whole ordeal: it was the loss of a possession that, taken for granted as it had been, was still somehow vital and treasured.
Bakura did not explain himself now, and Ryou didn't question him. He merely let himself be held, ignoring the near-painful desperation that made the grip so tight, and weakly wrapped his own arms around the trembling spirit in response.
"I'm sorry, Bakura."
Then, more hesitantly, "…I thought you wanted me to go."
"So did I."
That was all he said, and Ryou turned his back on the confusion that threatened to consume him, falling silent in turn and simply holding the spirit close.
