A/N: Oh, god, die of shock guys: It's an update! I need to stop making promises I can't keep. Part of my issue with updating this is, quite frankly, I never want this story to end. It's my baby… And it's over 33% posted…
Chapter 14: Purging
"It was the right thing to do," Yami said, sitting down next to Bakura by the wall closest to the back door, behind the game shop, who bristled at the unwanted company. Bakura turned from staring at the far wall, ignoring the little "get together" at the Mouto's Ryou had dragged him to, to face Yami.
"What was?" he said, humoring Yami for his own amusement. He pulled his sleeves down, over his hands, subconsciously, fisting the material in his hands.
Yami looked pointedly at Ryou at the other end of the room by the couch, who was laughing at a joke told by Marik and retold by Joey, then back at Bakura. "He's happier."
Bakura curled his lips into a sneer. "He's not better." Which was true. The past week had settled down, and life in the Bakura apartment was calmer than it had been since before Bakura realized Ryou had an eating disorder, but every so often Ryou picked at his dinner, rather than ate it, or excused himself to the toilet. There were still mornings that Bakura woke to Ryou choking up food, throwing laws of nature into reverse.
"No," Yami said as he relaxed against the wall, causing Bakura to glower more intently at Yami's presence, hoping the implication he wanted to be left alone to sulk at his semi-forced interaction with Ryou's friends. "But he's getting there. He made an appointment with his therapist so it wouldn't get worse."
Bakura shrugged. As far as he could tell, Ryou's therapist was supposed to provide help for Ryou's weird eating; he wondered how Yami knew the mechanics behind therapy, but just scoffed. That information wasn't pertinent to him. He ignored the niggling stabs of guilt that knotted his stomach. Ryou was fine, so whatever. It was all good, all pretty and copacetic.
Bakura relaxed his fists when Yami returned to the majority of the group in the center of the Mouto's living room, letting his sleeves loosen to reveal the barest strip of his wrists. He stared blankly at the wall once more, contemplating his purpose in being here. He supposed he had promised Ryou. The boy had first frowned at him, a look Bakura was fast learning to distrust as actual nutrients in Ryou's body made him more clear headed, then smiled, urging him to tag along, "only for a short while." Idiot Pharaoh aside, at least the others had the decency to leave him in peace.
…
As Ryou's health gradually returned to him, his pallor radiant rather than pasty, his cheeks less swollen, and his clothes fitting better as he filled them out better as he gained the few kilos he desperately needed, Bakura felt terrible. He awoke most mornings with a headache and increasing throbbing on his arm. He gritted his teeth as he wrenched the fabric of his shirt sleeve from his arm one morning that was just barely morning and, in fact, almost noon.
The fabric clung to the cut on his arm and he ripped it away telling himself he should damn well be used to the pain. His eyes smarted as he took in the site of the most recent cut, from a couple weeks ago when he had caught Ryou in front of the fridge. The two smaller cuts had healed into flaky scabs, but the largest remained puffy and red, and swollen.
He swallowed against the rising bile. The cut had been deep, and with Ryou's impromptu presence the morning after, he never properly cleaned it, just changed shirts. When he finally cleaned it that night, in the bath, he gave up his fruitless attempt to remove all of the caked on blood on top of the cut. Now, a few weeks later, the cut had healed partially, in a raised, tender scar. He threw caution to the wind, poking at the cut, and yelped at the sudden, white hot, pain.
Ryou's voice floated under the door as he passed through. "You okay, Bakura?"
"I'm fine," he replied, quickly yanking his sleeve down.
Bakura left his room a few minutes later. His arm still burned and his head pounded at every miniscule noise. When the door opened and Yugi, Yami, and Marik greeted Ryou from his genkan, Bakura settled for dropping himself to the couch, any forlorn thoughts of consuming food forgotten. His stomach churned with nausea as the pain intensified by the guests' extra voices.
Ryou invited the group in, even providing house slippers for them. Bakura chose to prop his bare feet on the coffee table as a response to Ryou's general cleanliness. Ryou smiled brightly at him, and he glowered right back.
"Hello Bakura," Yugi said as he sat down on the couch, along with Yami and Marik. Ryou curled up on the chair, letting his slippers fall to the floor as he nestled in the oversize chair.
"Hi," Bakura said, crossing his arms. He bit back a grimace of pain as Yami and Ryou threw him worried looks. "What? I said hi." He sank back into the cushions, hoping the soft material would alleviate his headache. Damn, it was too early for this.
"Anyway," Ryou redirected their attention, "You guys never said why you were coming. I don't mind, of course." He smiled.
"We wanted to invite you to Grandpa's tournament," Yugi said. His eyes lit up brightly and he talked animatedly, waving his hands about. "I mean, formally." Yami presented Ryou with a sealed envelope with a crest of the Kame Game shop.
Ryou opened the envelope as Yugi continued to explain about the competition. "It's just a local tournament, and Grandpa's running it with a few other store owners, so there won't be any holograms or anything fancy like the last couple." He trailed off, but everyone in the room knew he meant the last few tournaments which had been held by Kaiba Corporation, a ruse by Seto Kaiba to achieve dueling victory against Yugi Mouto, or now, Yami Mouto. Yami hadn't actually entered any of the most recent dueling competitions, much to everyone's confusion and surprise.
Ryou glanced at the contents of the letter coupled with a general advertisement. He handed it back to Yugi. "I would love to come watch, but I'm not very good at dueling." He jerked his thumb at Bakura. "Besides he did all the dueling."
"That's right," Marik agreed. Bakura turned his hateful expression on his former ally. He leaned forwards, so he was looking directly into Bakura's glare. "I remember Battle City. You could've won, you know."
Bakura flushed from embarrassment rather than the sticky heat of August. He remembered Battle City too, and he did not like the direction this was going, especially when Yami's eyes softened as he glanced at Ryou, then Bakura. Surely everyone remembered he threw the duel for Ryou's sake.
"I'm not interested," he said when Yugi tried to hand him an envelope similar to Ryou's
Marik cocked his head. "Why not?"
Bakura sighed loudly, and Ryou jumped up from his curled position, ever the peace maker. "Oh I forgot; let me make some tea for everyone. Any suggestions?" He gave everyone a momentary glance as he waved his arm in the general direction of the kitchen.
After Ryou left to four heads shaking noncommittally, Bakura found himself at the mercy of the remaining three. "You're a good duelist," Marik continued.
Yami looked at Bakura with one of those sympathetic, knowing looks he could not stand. Even trying to look empathetic, the Pharaoh still looked high-and-mighty and mocking. Bakura chose to keep his current ugly sneer in place as Yami voiced his opinion. "There were many duels that you almost won. We were always challenged when dueling you."
"He's right," Yugi chimed.
Bakura stared resolutely at the kitchen entrance where he could see Ryou preparing tea and a selection of snacks, fruit wedges, crackers, and small candies. At their heavy stares and the subsequent mounting pressure in his head, Bakura snapped just as Ryou entered the room with the tea kettle and mugs in one hand and the snacks balanced on a single plate in the other, "I know I'm good. I'm just not interested!"
"Then why don't you participate?" Ryou asked as he arranged the tea kettle and mugs around the table. He began pouring tea into the mugs. "It could be fun." As he finished, he grabbed an apple wedge and bit it in half, the snap grating against Bakura's headache.
"Because I don't fucking want to," he snarled, gulping at the steaming hot liquid.
"Okay then," Ryou said calmly, still chewing on his apple slice. After a long moment he swallowed, a slightly discontent look twisted his face.
…
Bakura stretched his arms over his head, then winced and jerked his arms back to his sides as pain flared up along his covered forearm. He hissed; Ryou glanced over at him from the armchair he curled up in as the two watched some crappy game show on the television.
"You okay?" Ryou asked. Bakura flushed, realizing in that moment what had happened. He crossed his arms and glared in the direction of the television. Ryou tried again, "Bakura?"
"I'm fine," Bakura ground out, a horrible sinking in his stomach told him Ryou wasn't about to let it drop. "Must've bruised it or something," he muttered after a long minute under Ryou's gaze. The lack of puking and inclusion of food in Ryou's life made the boy more cognizant. The realization he would have to hide this better nagged at him.
Eventually Ryou's gaze slid back to the stupid game program, and Bakura closed himself in his room at the first opportunity that wasn't overly suspicious. He rolled up his sleeve after locking the door and looked down at the one festering cut. Later tonight, during his bath, he would properly clean that, but right now he needed to get rid of anything that gave away his cutting. Honestly, why hadn't he came to that conclusion sooner? He berated himself mentally as he stared over the contents of his room.
Once again, he was struck with the thought why should he bother hiding it? Somehow, without ever actually answering his own suppositions, he knew it was necessary, so he set to the task of purging his room. He slid open the second to top drawer of his dresser and dug a hand under the layer of clothes. Smiling grimly, Bakura plucked the plastic bits that had encased the razor blades in the trading card sleeve.
Those had been there since late March. He flung the leftover plastic in a random empty grocery bag, probably also from the first shopping trip in March. He glanced at his bed with a single cover sheet and comforter piled messily on top, the desk where he flung his uniform at most school days—how long had it been since the uniform or the bed sheets had been cleaned? His inability to remember a time disgusted him.
Bakura gathered the offending items and balled them in a pile by the door. He surveyed the litter of dirty and clean clothes on the floor. He picked them up a few at a time, and sniffed each article individually: clothes determined to be clean were tossed to the wall and the dirty pieces joined the comforter. Bakura peered under his bed on a whim, and hurriedly grabbed what lay under his bed.
Blood soaked paper towels, likely enough to fill a whole roll, had been swept under his bed, or dropped in the gap between the bed and the wall. That was definitely something Ryou would notice. He stuffed them into the bag. The bag was semi translucent, so the large quantity of towels dotted with varying drying blood was visible. He vowed to figure out a solution to that.
For now, he could probably pitch the bag in one of the trash bins at the park. Decision made, he stuffed the overly full bag into his school bag. This would be a pain, Bakura realized. The briefcase like bags required by the school didn't mask the extra addition. He sighed to himself and stashed everything back under the bed. Maybe, when, and if, he would deal with that later, sometime, tomorrow perhaps. The television in the living room had been silenced, probably turned off by Ryou, in the time he had been organizing the crap in his room. He heard the tinkering of dishes and his stomach rumbled. He glanced at the clock on his nightstand, and realized Ryou was probably starting lunch.
He should go out there, offer to help, do something, but he remained behind his closed door, drowning in the uselessness he felt. Frankly, he didn't want to go out and help cook. Why would he? Ryou still obsessed over food, so whatever he served was in precise amounts and included stringently healthy foods—or the closest Ryou could achieve with frozen meals. It was no fun helping Ryou, but it was proper. And polite. And Bakura's insides churned with the knowledge he should budge up and just go do it.
He toyed with the Change of Heart card in his hands, flipping the card autonomously. When had he reached into his jeans pockets? A blade glinted at him from behind the card face. That was something he could do instead.
Bakura pushed himself up off the floor, and dragged himself and the pile of dirty laundry out near the kitchen where the washer was kept. Sure enough as he dumped the items in the washer, unconcerned if they were sorted or over the fill line, Ryou had lunch halfway done. He was preparing some vegetable heavy meat and rice dish.
He forced his voice to remain steady, and asked, "Want some help?" He swallowed down the urge to clear his throat.
Ryou glanced up from a sizzling pan filled with slowly cooking broccoli florets. "Sure." He pointed at the cutting board where a cucumber lay next to a knife. "Slice up the cucumber."
Bakura shrugged at the slight raise in Ryou's voice, the unasked inquiry. He still hesitated with asking for anything. Bakura resisted glowering at the obnoxious frightened kitten act, and washed his hands in the sink. He took great care not to lift his sleeves higher than the bottoms of his wrists.
"Normal slices?" He clarified, refusing to meet Ryou's gaze.
…
"What are you doing?" Joey's voice broke through Bakura's one track thoughts as he lugged the garbage bag from earlier, filled with wads of blood soaked paper towels, out the apartment doors. He scowled. He thought he had made it out worry free as Ryou locked himself in the bathroom to barf his lunch up in the toilet.
Ryou slipped away after chewing the last grain of rice; Bakura knew what he intended to do. If he was a better person, he would've mentioned something as Ryou gulped down two glasses of water with his meal. Maybe if he hadn't been so preoccupied with thoughts on how to sneak out an obviously rotund bag of cutting paraphernalia, he would've called Ryou out. He started therapy on Friday, on tomorrow. Bakura held ammunition to make Ryou hesitate… "A hand waved at his face, and Bakura's demeanor chilled to prevent any unintentional leakage of emotions Joey wasn't warranted to see, that no one should witness.
"What do you want?" he snarled. He hoisted the bag over a shoulder and stalked off, leaving the apartment behind. He stomped through the parking lot, leaving Joey behind to gape stupidly. Or that's what he hoped the idiot would do. Fate tortured him, Bakura thought, as a hand landed on his opposite shoulder. He stilled. He turned to face Joey reluctantly, more concerned about the nature of the contents enclosed by the black plastic. He ground out, "What?"
Joey rubbed the back of his head. "Who's chopped up in there?" he asked, with a nervous chuckle. He reached for the bag with his hands, but was cut off by Bakura flipping the bag further behind his back. "Seriously, what'ya have in there?"
"None of your concern," Bakura said.
Joey's eyes widened. "I'm going to check on Ryou."
Bakura smirked; a small bubbling of humor that the blond idiot would have to suffer with Ryou's purging this time. "You'll find he is indisposed." Bakura turned and continued to walk off the apartment property, a grin slipped on his face as he heard Joey's pace quicken as the other boy practically ran for the apartment lobby.
He made the familiar walk to the park about a mile from the apartment, loosing himself in the rhythm of the routine. He half expected to stop at the park for a relaxing cut or two; he had his blades, but he didn't feel up to cutting when his arm still stung, so he let the thought drift away. As he approached the park, his footsteps slowed. He surveyed the immediately vicinity, before quickly crossing the road and depositing the bag into one of the garbage cans.
Remembering Joey's inquiries about the contents of the bag, he shoved it underneath the garbage rotting in the sun. He tried to ignore the smell on his fingers as he made the trek back to the apartment. At least Ryou would be done puking and most likely done cleaning the mess by the time he returned.
At least Ryou attempted to be discreet with his habits post Bakura's admission.
…
A/N:
The Japanese recycling system makes the USA's (which is the only country I can speak for) pale in comparison. This isn't something I have extended knowledge about, but I do know that there are certain avenues one has to take to dispose of various types of garbage. I'm not sure if it was so stringent in 1998, but as recycling was somewhat talked about in my little hick town in the late 1990s, I'm sure something existed. Bakura simply doesn't care.
