A/N: Look, it's an update! Let's call this a Christmas gift. I don't really know how to explain my lengthy absence. I don't feel any reason is a good enough reason for falling off the face of the planet. I can't even promise for sure when the next update will be, because the chapter isn't even half done. I will do my best to not disappear again. I just need to get over the hurdle of the next few chapters, then the plot propels forward. I'm hoping I can shrug off the writer's block from hell.
I found this chapter especially triggering. Thought I would put a trigger warning, in case.
Chapter 12: Intervention of the Worst Kind
Afternoon found Bakura once again laying face down on his bed, absent mindedly scratching at his arm. He didn't possess enough ambition to actively harm himself, but the scratching distorted the chattering voices in the main sitting room of the apartment. He breathed out against the heavy accusations that were thrown at Ryou from his former host's friends, referring to his eating disorder.
Bakura's lips curled upwards as the term 'eating disorder' lurked around his thoughts. Even through his partly closed door, Joey's and Tristan's voices reached his ears, increasing the pounding in his head. He inched his hand further up his sleeve as the diatribe continued. He imagined Ryou cowering in the corner, letting his supposed friends bounce accusations off him. Bakura's frown lessoned at the thought.
"You need to talk with someone. Your therapist, your father, anyone," Tea's voice floated into Bakura's room as he half listened to the words that didn't make perfectly clear sense.
Joey butt into Tea's concerned lecture; Bakura anticipated Joey physically inserting himself in to the middle at the same time, pushing Tea back a few paces as he leaned directly into Ryou's face. "You can't be hurting yourself because of him. He isn't worth it, you know?" At this, Bakura scowled, finally digging into his uniform pocket (having never bothered to change after he blew off school earlier).
"Joey!" Yugi gasped.
"He's not wrong," Tristan agreed with Joey's previous proclamation; Bakura tipped the card upside down. A perfectly sharp blade landed in his waiting palm. "He doesn't care about you at all," Bakura assumed the last sentiment was directed to Ryou.
"Guys, really. I'm fine," Ryou said and Bakura stared up into the small circle notches in the blade as he envisioned Ryou holding his hands out, palms up, in a pleading gesture his host was so fond of. "And Bakura's fine. We all are, really."
"Not buying it," Tristan said with a note of finality.
A clinking of something glass against the table, then Tea spoke in a low voice Bakura struggled to hear, "Ryou." She spoke his name with a practiced familiarity, revealing the kind of friendship Yugi, Tea, Tristan, Joey, and Ryou had. Bakura's chest tightened. He twirled one little blade in his hand, between thumb and forefinger while wearily glancing at the cracked bedroom door. "We've noticed you have been tired lately, and pale, and just ill looking. We're worried."
Bakura snorted at the clichéd speech, continuing to twist the blade between his fingers, the repetitious motion calmed the surging anxiety threatening to suffocate him.
"I think what Tea means is we're worried the stress of our spirits returning might've caused a relapse…" Bakura clenched his fist around the blade at Yugi's words, at the implication behind Yugi's words. He hissed at the biting sting.
Ryou attempted another round of protesting, but was quickly silenced by Joey. "No, you aren't okay, Ryou. I was there, remember. I know this. Stop lying!" A loud bang, most likely Joey's fist connecting with the coffee table, erupted.
The entire apartment went quiet except for the sounds of muffled gasps, similar to the sounds Bakura heard between Ryou's choking vomiting. He unfurled his own fist, revealing the blade and a stinging nick on the palm of his hand. A small bead of red bubbled up along the cut.
He glanced at the door once more and nearly jumped out of his skin as two sets of violet eyes met his own. He quickly palmed the blade, heart racing in his chest, surely audible to Marik and Yami.
"What the fuck!?" he cried, drowning out the newest intervention speech courtesy Yugi's friends. Marik pushed open the door all the way, letting himself in Bakura's room. Yami followed slowly behind. As Marik approached the bed, Bakura discreetly shoved the card out of sight, and placed his hand flat against the sheets, blade tucked beneath the bed and his hand.
"What're you looking at?" Marik asked. He sat on the bed and Bakura's heart leapt into his throat.
He snarled nastily, "Nothing!"
Yami stood near the bed. He slowly bounced back and forth, from one foot to the other. Every so often, he ran a hand through his hair. "What was in your hand?"
Bakura swallowed bile that rose in his throat. "None of your business, Pharaoh." He resisted the temptation to fold his arms over his chest, even as the blade's sharp edge, cutting into the skin of his palm as he pressed harder on the bed, served as a reminder.
"What's your problem?" Marik leaned forward as he questioned Bakura. He reached to grab at Bakura's arm, the one covering the razor blade. In one fell sweep, Bakura scooped up the blade (fisted with ends of his sheets), and punched Marik with his other hand. Both Marik and Yami jumped back.
"What the hell?" Marik clutched his nose with both hands. He whipped his head round and threw Bakura a dirty look. "What was that for!?"
Sheet and blade still curled in his opposing fist, Bakura stood trembling by the bed. He raised his free hand and pointed towards the door. "Get out," he said in an eerily flat voice.
"Bakura?" Yami paused at the doorway with Marik at his feet.
"Get out! Go away!" Bakura yelled. The two rushed from the room; Bakura slammed the door behind them. He leaned against the door, locking it in one motion.
He let the sheet fall to a crumple on the floor, slackening his grip on the blade. He exhaled against the biting throbbing in his palm, as Yami's and Marik's quizzical tones floated underneath the crack at the bottom of the door.
Ryou's tearful voice reached Bakura's ears as the two unwelcome guests walked away from his closed door, presumably into the living room to join the intervention. "Look, I'm fine," Ryou said finally, in a voice choked with emotion. Bakura pictured Ryou was staring determinedly at a far wall, arms crossed, refusing to meet any of his friends' eyes.
A soft noise, then the sound of the apartment door lock unhinging and the slight groaning of the door, caught Bakura's attention as he settled on his bare mattress. "Thank you for worrying about me. I appreciate your concern," Ryou said, his tone steady. He did not speak rudely nor insist the intervention thing was a bust, but his voice conveyed that solemnity.
Muffled sounds of everyone leaving, sans Bakura and Ryou, filled the living room, until finally, the apartment was silent.
Bakura swallowed, spittle slicking the back of his throat. Between the intrusive thoughts of what Marik and Yami, those two idiots, might have seen and the sounds of Ryou's feet padding across the linoleum in the kitchen (the squeak of the fridge door opening, and after a long moment, closing; the muffled clanking of dishes and the scraping of metal against china…), Bakura found himself flipping the blade, still grasped between his fingers, around so the sharp edge faced outwards.
He gulped down bile at the sound of silence, or rather, forced silence. Bakura sank to his knees against the pressure of everything (the absence of food wrappers crinkling, the lack of repetitive scraping of spoon against bowl, no small curses as Ryou fumbled with one of the sets of chopsticks: all these sound muted behind doors). He rolled up his sleeve to cut again into his forearm.
Then, he paused. Adding another cut to his arm, after the Pharaoh saw—or might have seen—was akin to tempting fate. He slackened his grip on the blade, gently coaxing it from his skin, leaving a tiny indent that would disappear after a few moments. No, he shouldn't be cutting himself, especially if they…
Ryou's door, across the hall from his, squeaked as Ryou opened it; sounds Bakura hadn't missed returned. Ryou walked to the kitchen, the clang of dishes deposited in the sink, the opening and closing of the fridge yet again; after a few moments, the sounds stilled again as Ryou closed himself in his bedroom.
Bakura glared down at the razor blade in his hand and at the rapidly fading indent on his arm. Fuck it, he thought as he brought the blade to his skin again. Why did he care what the idiot Pharaoh and his newest lapdog thought? It shouldn't matter to him. The equally repulsed expressions on everyone's faces as he scratched bleeding welts into his arm publically not more than an hour after his impromptu return to this world floated at the surface of his memories.
He grit his teeth, and tugged the blade across his flesh. The searing pain let him know he had cut deep enough. And, the blood rising to the surface of the cut reaffirmed his choice. It was his arm he chose to cut up. It wasn't—and shouldn't—be anyone's business but his own.
Yet as he dabbed toilet paper on the cut, he knew his arms would be covered with long sleeves, whether it be his uniform shirt or the baggy tee shirts he had taken to wearing.
…
Orange light filtered into Bakura's room, casting distorted patches along the walls and Bakura's bed. He glanced down at the Change of Heart card, with the blades tucked securely behind the card, on his freshly, half-assed made bed, the under sheet tucked hastily into each of the four corners and the top sheet and comforter crumpled in a messy heap in the corner.
He set the card on his side table, even as the sounds of Ryou retching and gasping filled his ears. The intervention seemed to help oh so much. Helped by causing multiple rounds of puking and eating after all Ryou's friends had left, Bakura thought. His arm ached underneath the fabric of his tee shirt, an ache reminiscent of the odd swelling sensation in his chest.
"You're destroying yourself," he muttered to the empty room and the steadily sinking sun, the gold light bouncing off the walls made his vision blurry as he lay down on the sheets, cradling his head in his arms.
Yep, the intervention had gone over fantastically, Bakura seethed in his mind. After a long while, the vomiting stopped, and Bakura prayed this would be the last round for the day. Whatever was going on with Ryou, it was getting worse. In hindsight, Bakura didn't think it had been so bad when he possessed him in his quest for the Millennium Items. Surely he would have felt it in Ryou's body; hell, he was exhausted just listening to the cycle.
Eat. Puke. Eat. Puke. Eat more. Puke more. Eat yet again. Puke. So on, so forth.
He flopped on his back as the toilet flush filled the apartment, scrubbing at his eyes as the kitchen door squeaked and fridge opened.
…
On the very last day of school before summer break, Bakura found himself crowded by the members of Yugi's friendship group as they huddled near Ryou's desk, which sat adjacent to his. The last remnant of summer rains kept everyone inside the classroom for lunch.
Bakura shifted at the increase in humidity due to the cluster of Yugi's friends. He bent over his lunch before anyone could call him out on his discomfort. Even Ryou had begun to question his multiple layer, long sleeved uniform preference this close to summer break. The Pharaoh had finally agreed with the native Japanese that it was too bloody hot, and donned short sleeves inside and outside of school.
Yugi pointed his chopsticks in the general direction of the group as he spoke animatedly about the various activities he planned to partake in over break. When the mention of a dueling tournament came up, Bakura felt a buzzing on his neck. Lifting his eyes minutely, he became aware of multiple sets of eyes on him. He glanced up and growled, "What?"
He found himself on the opposite end of Yugi's chopsticks. "Grandpa's store is hosting a local tournament in a few weeks. We thought you might like…" At Bakura's mounting glower, Yugi's words dribbled off into obscurity.
"There's no reason for you to act like this," Yami interjected. He placed a hand on Yugi's shoulder, throwing the smaller boy a soft smile. "You've dueled in past tournaments. It was a fair suggestion."
Bakura remembered those tournaments far too well, especially Battle City, which he had snuck into, making the top eight. Or the incident in Duelist Kingdom: one of his first encounters with the spirit of the millennium puzzle. And he had lost both miserable times; hell, he was obliterated in his table top challenge. He ignored the feelings of inadequacy that made his cheeks flame. He bit the inside of his cheek.
He crossed his arms and looked away. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joey rest a hand on Ryou's shoulder. Ryou looked up, eyes brightening as he rejoined the conversation from whatever distant thoughts he had been in. "You want to enter a tournament, Ryou?"
Ryou shook his head at Joey, a smile tugging at his lips. "I'm not very good at dueling myself. I prefer table top RPGs."
"I remember that." Tea leaned across Ryou's desk. "Have you made any new layouts recently?"
"Um, no. I haven't had time, so much…" Ryou looked down at his clasped hands.
"Really?" Tristan cocked an eyebrow, his face tight with accusations. Ryou blushed, dipping his head further. "You were working on one not long ago. Usually you're all over 'em at this point."
Since he had rematerialized in this world, Bakura hadn't noticed Ryou putting together a table top game once. Though, if he recalled correctly, his room once held the materials for them. He wondered where they were now. Possibly Ryou's room, he thought.
"I, I don't know. I'm just not interested. Anyway, tell me about the tournament. Are you entering Yami?" Ryou shifted the group's attention to Yami, who stepped back slightly and rubbed the back of his head in embarrassment as he found himself the center of attention.
"King of Games versus King of Games. That would be epic!" Joey nearly shouted, having forgotten his concern about Ryou.
"I would love to watch that," chimed Tristan. Bakura snorted. Idiots, he thought to himself.
"I haven't decided if I want to participate," Yami said finally, his voice a few octaves lower than normal.
Tea glanced at Yami, her eyebrows slightly raised in the center. "Why not? You love dueling."
"I do." Yami said. "I just haven't decided. That's all. It's a big commitment." Bakura watched the once great Pharaoh seem to shrink into himself as Tea, intuitively, continued onto more neutral topics, until finally the awkwardness shrugged away.
…
After school let out for summer break, Bakura exited his room after changing from his uniform to more casual long sleeved button up shirt and jeans, and entered the kitchen amidst chaos. Bakura caught his hand, slamming his open palm against the open doorway for the small apartment kitchen, as he witnessed the horror unfold in front of him. The door closed as much as it could behind him, forcing himself into the room. Ryou, on his knees, kneeled in front of the open refrigerator, hoisting leftover containers in the crook of his arm as he bent, hair covering his face, over a large, plastic, yellow bowl.
He scooped large spoonfuls of—Bakura assumed—raw dough into his mouth, somewhere beneath his drooping strands of hair. Bakura's knees trembled as Ryou finished off the batter, coaxed another container into his hand, and proceeded to shovel the remains of a noodle dish in his mouth with the same metal spoon. He felt himself slip, before regaining his balance, smacking the wall with his hand in the process.
This time, Ryou glanced up, looking akin to a pathetic loyal-to-the-end mutt waiting on its master, all shrunken and curled in on himself, encasing the leftovers. But, it was his eyes, the look of sheer desperation, the dead eyes of a deer that made him choke out the words, "What are you doing to yourself?"
The containers fell against the floor, not like in the movies where the accused runs off, flinging dishes and general cookware amuck and responds with heavy defensive ranting, but something more real. Ryou's arms sagged to his sides; in the same moment, the containers slipped from the crook of his elbow, some landing upright, some still securely closed, some spilling food on the floor, on Ryou's lap.
He gazed at Bakura with lifeless eyes, ignoring the wreckage of sauce soaked vegetables threatening to stain his school uniform. "I thought you were still out," he said in a voice as eerily calm as his eyes. At Bakura's jaw dropping and eyes widening, at the horrified expression, he laughed. "I was hungry, Bakura. I'm eating. Tell Joey that I'm eating. Can you do that Bakura?" Ryou's voice rose, the tinny shrillness, like glass shattering, grated Bakura's ears.
Bakura's legs gave up the battle, collapsing underneath him. His palm stung as it dragged against the wooden entryway, surely leaving small nicks and slivers. Ryou laughed again, at Bakura's silence. He shoved one of the upended containers with a hand, hurling a slimy brown mess towards Bakura. "Tell them I eat Bakura, please."
"Why?" The question slipped out before Bakura could stop it.
Ryou's eyes shined. For the first time in the past few minutes, his expression shifted to something cognizant, something human. Tear shimmered at the edges of his eyes, catching on individual eyelashes. "Because you don't care." Ryou blinked, freeing tears to snake down his face.
Bakura was on his feet, grabbing Ryou by the polo collar of his summer uniform shirt and flinging him against the open fridge; Ryou gasped, blinking madly, more tears leaking. He pressed his face into Ryou's and snarled. Ryou squirmed against the chill from the fridge. "Idiot host," he uttered a name he hadn't said in months out of habit. "Of course I, fucking, care!"
He leered in closer, touching noses with Ryou and feeling some of the frigid cold, "I care about you, for fuck's sake!" He dropped Ryou, letting the boy sag against the shelves of the fridge, still blinking out tears.
A/N:
I don't think there's much to say. The Japanese school summer is about a month long, usually for the month of August. It depends on the region of Japan how long/when exactly summer falls, but the average is a month, so I'm going with it. And don't you know, Bakura has a busy summer coming. Heheh.
Ryou's eating disorder isn't going to be magically cured, but it isn't going to be this prominent for a long time again, if you all are getting sick of it (I know I'm getting sick of trying to write it). If you have any questions about his eating disorder, feel free to ask. If it is not relevant to the plot, I'll answer.
