A/N: This plot in this chapter is taken from a scene in "Please Kill Me" by Sozuki. It's more of a dedication to her fanfic then anything else. I absolutely adored her story in ninth grade. I was coming up with ideas to lengthen "Insignificant" this past summer (as I was cleaning out a friend's pool) and the first thing that popped in my head was: let's do a beach scene!

Chapter 15: The Beach Part 1

He was stealing razors. Well, that was Bakura's plans for the day: nicking razors from the local convenience store. The morning dwindled away as Bakura sat behind the closed and locked door of his bedroom, trying to grip one of his blades to cut into his arm. He had been aiming to reopen his still throbbing wound, and found the blade glided over his skin with the precision of a butter knife. Unless he pressed deeply into his flesh and pulled.

But that hurt. Hell, the thought of wrenching dull metal through clean flesh or a sore, few week old cut made his skin crawl. Bakura bristled and walked under the blindingly bright lights at the convenience store entrance. The loud noises of customers perusing the aisles, the chirpy voices of overly friendly employees, and the buzzing and flat artificial feminine voices from various electronics caused Bakura to hesitate. Unlike the uniform store he had stolen the first razor from back in March, this place was overrun with every modern technology.

He noticed the solitary camera pointing towards the registers, and he smirked. Not so well stocked after all, Bakura reasoned. He would just need to stay away from the crowded areas. The store wasn't even equipped with a security system by the doors. He stretched his arms over his head, letting the joints to pop loudly. What a wonderfully trusting country Japan was. With that thought, he meandered to the aisle brimming with every personal aide item available.

He picked the cheaper variant of razors, not that he acknowledged the prices as he did not plan to purchase anything. He skimmed his eyes over the more expensive razors, and found the blades (especially on the packaging offering five blades for a fine shave) too thin for his liking. He didn't notice the razors he grabbed were pink until he plucked one from the plastic wrapping.

He suppressed the urge to shrug. It made no difference, especially after he picked apart the plastic and revealed three shiny, brand new blades—three sharp blades. Bakura pocketed the single pink razor, and left the loudness of the store. As the air conditioned cool seeped away, replaced by muggy late August humidity, Bakura took joy in the quickly slipping away summer break. He tugged on his sleeves as if the action could circulate the oppressive heat.

Soon enough, he told himself, school would start up and impose the long sleeved uniform rule, then the temperature would steadily drop through September and October. Just as soon as he suffered through the last week of August and the tournament the Mouto's were hosting next week. He felt his lips curl back in a sneer, and he patted the bulge in his pocket, his plastic and metal hundred yen prize.

Bakura and Ryou lounged in front of the television that evening after dinner. For the most part, dinner had been a calm affair: Ryou and Bakura ate and completed the meal by washing up—Ryou washed and Bakura rinsed and dried. He managed to complete the task without lifting his sleeve and Ryou did not rush off to vomit up the meal, so Saturday was better than Friday, and the two celebrated with a senseless game show and a relaxing evening.

On the first commercial break, ads serving as normalcy in the chaos of the game show, Ryou offered to make tea. Two steaming mugs of green tea later, the two were fully relaxed as they, eyes wide and cackling indecently, watched the antics of people so desperate for fame or money. Surely, Bakura thought, one would have to be offered copious amounts of money to willingly flop so pathetically to shower in the nude on public television. It wasn't the strategic rules of the game that kept Bakura's or Ryou's attention.

"This is just bad," Ryou remarked, almost as a continuation of Bakura's thoughts. He sipped at his cup of tea as the—surprise!—naked woman was relinquished to the lucky winner and the entire studio audience and every viewer in the country.

Bakura laughed and threw Ryou a glance. "It really is. I think I prefer the commercials over this." He gestured at the television, at the game show, which abruptly went to a commercial as if challenging Bakura's statements.

Ryou leaned forward as the commercial blared, in an obnoxious parody of a sensual feminine voice, about the newest electronic gadget. "That would be nice," he murmured.

Bakura looked at it, asking blankly, "What is it?"

"It's like a VCR," Ryou said, to which Bakura continued to stare blankly at him. Ryou scratched his head as he tried to come up with an answer to Bakura's confusion. "It lets you play TV shows at home. Yugi has one; it's how Pegasus invited him to Duelist Kingdom."

Here Bakura nodded as the information sank in. He wasn't around for the viewing of the tape, but he had seen the VCR at the Mouto's. If he thought back hard enough, he remembered it from the impromptu 'modernity' lessons he and the idiot Pharaoh had received. "Why don't you have one, then?"

Ryou shrugged as the commercial changed to the newest cell phone ad. "I never really watched much TV before, so I never wanted one. I used to play a lot of tabletop games. I never had much time to care about it."

Bakura nodded. He tried to quell the guilt pooling in his stomach. Even though Ryou had not mentioned the RPG crap to be cruel or passive aggressive, Bakura still remembered his own involvement in those games. "I see," he said finally, and the mood in the room soured. He plucked himself off the couch and headed to his bedroom. He had better things he could be doing than drowning in past memories, of which still remained, tantalizingly new, in his pocket.

Bakura awoke the next day, Sunday, later to the ever present soreness from the cut-that-would-not-heal and the newest pinpricks of pain from his better-things-to-do-last-night, earlier than his usual routine of dragging himself out of bed, rubbing the crusty matted gunk from his eyes just before lunch He blinked, going from half asleep and confused by the sounds of early morning birds chirping, to conscious of Ryou holding a phone conversation on his mobile phone from across the hall. With his door open. He threw himself back on his bed, head smashing against his pillow. He would never get back to sleep with the constant stinging from the cut, his pounding head, and the insufferable humidity.

He listened to the end of Ryou's conversation as he stared upwards at the ceiling, at the tiny splinters and nooks he was familiar with. "The beach? Today?" A pause. Bakura ran an arm lightly up and down his arms. A beach outing would be…unpleasant, surely. "Well, I suppose we could. We don't have anything else planned." Bakura outright grimaced at the thought of sitting in the sweltering sun. At least the apartment blocked the direct influence of the sun.

After a minute of pleasantries, Ryou hung up the phone, and Bakura stalked out to the kitchen, snarling at Ryou in the process, "Done planning my life for me?"

Ryou frowned, mobile phone still in hand, "You don't have to go, you know."

Bakura chose to keep his confirmation and agreement silent as he stormed past Ryou to the bathroom.

Bakura plopped down on the couch nearly tossing a premade bag full of supplies for the beach on the floor beside him. Ryou looked up from the kitchen where he was preparing a bento for himself and Bakura. "You are coming?" His face lit up.

Bakura shrugged, just kicking the bag lightly as a response.

Ryou added rice balls on the top layer, before closing both bento boxes. "I made you one just in case," he said as he slipped a wide rubber band on each, placing them in a cloth bag.

"You made me a bento?" Bakura asked, gazing down at his fingers. The edges of his vision blurred, and he swallowed a lump down his throat. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Ryou said, setting the bag down next to Bakura's. He surveyed the apartment. "Well I think we're done. Just have to wait for the rest to meet us." He flicked on the television with the remote. As a mindless show filled the small apartment with garish noises, Bakura curled up with his knees to his chest, a satisfied calmness spreading over his countenance.

Time passed with the ending of the first game show, to the beginning of a comedy sitcom, before the entire group: Yugi, Yami, Tea, Joey, Tristan, and Marik, arrived. Ryou let the group in, handing the least packed individuals, Joey and Tristan, extra towels and snacks. "So, we're ready?" he asked.

After a round of nods of confirmation, the group stumbled out of the apartment, with Bakura at the rear. He swore, remembering something suddenly, and smacked his fist against the door. "Be right back."

"Where are you—" Yami asked.

"Forgot something," Bakura called, barreling back into his room. Digging through his dresser drawers in a blind panic, he shoved clothes to one side, not noticing or caring when some articles fell to the floor. At the very bottom of the third drawer, he saw the Change of Heart card. He plucked the card up and shoved it into his pockets. He turned on a heel, and followed the group out to the hallway and down eight floors to the parking lot, where Solomon Mouto waited in a van.

"What'd you forget?" Marik asked as Ryou breathed, "A van? Where did you ever get one?"

Bakura slid into the vehicle, mumbling, "Nothing important," letting Yugi extrapolate on Ryou's interest, and Marik's interest wavered from his suspicions to the vehicle-talk.

"One of Grandpa's friends let him borrow it. It's foreign made."

Tea laughed as she buckled her seatbelt, glancing up front where Solomon sat on the left side rather than the right. "I didn't even notice. So it is."

"Is that harder to drive?" Joey leaned forward from his spot, encircling his arms around Solomon's headrest. "I could help you out, Gramps, you know, if you need it."

Tristan smacked Joey on the head. "He doesn't need your kind of help."

"Besides, you can't get a driver's license in Japan until you're eighteen," Marik announced from the back.

Joey whirled his head around to face Marik, nearly taking out Bakura, who flattened himself against Ryou. He uncrossed his arms momentarily to catch himself. Joey spat, "Damn foreigner know-it-alls."

Bakura glowered as he repositioned himself, and crossed his arms once more. Joey gulped, turning around to face the front, where Solomon and Yugi were chuckling from the front seat. Bakura leaned his head against the back of the car, tightening his folded arms. His one cut still throbbed, his head pounded relentless, and it was a living fucking oven.

It was going to be a long car ride.

The beach was just as bad as Bakura surmised. During his angry sulking in the morning, he had prepared what hopefully passed as appropriate beach wear. When Tea stripped to a low cut two piece suit resembling what Bakura considered under garments, he questioned his choice.

Alone to change, he stripped to swimming trunks. He stared at his exposed arms. No way was he going to walk out there with the obvious scars, some white, but mostly bright red in the heat, new smatterings of open wounds, and the one cut, which was still raised, red, and sore, and kind of yellow… Bakura grimaced, throwing on his white, collared shirt, without bothering to button it.

Bakura resolutely ignored the voices trying to get his attention off to the side. He stretched languidly along the towel Ryou had packed for him. Thoughtful brat. He toyed with the edges of his shirt sleeves. Summers had been warm in Egypt. Logically he knew this, however the heat, as he remembered from his first life, had been a dry heat. Unlike the Japanese sun that bore down on him with a muggy humidity. He flicked a hand around his collar, grimly wiping sweat away.

Ugh. The long sleeves and extra layer didn't help matters any, but like hell he was going to take it off. "Oi! Bakura!" a shout finally broke through his forced concentration on anything but the people he was coerced to spend time with.

Why had he agreed to this excursion again? Oh right, the smile that lit up Ryou's face. Not that he cared about him or anything. He cocked his head at Marik, the ring leader in trying to get him to participate in…some sort of water game. Even he, with his lack of concern regarding societal niceties, acknowledged the glares that Ryou's group of friends received ranged from pointed disapproval and outright fury.

Most of the beach dwellers propped up shaded tarps and barbecued a meal. In fact, aside from young children, their group was comprised of the only older people in the water. Reluctantly Bakura replied to Marik (or the idiot would never deign to shut up), "Yes?" Blunt. Simple, and to the point.

"Can you second me?" Ryou asked, the only one else who was actually on the sand. Though he figured Ryou would join the others in the water after he conquered his aversion to showing his slightly less skeletal frame. Bakura however, was not going in the water. Ever.

He nodded, acquiescing to Ryou as the boy shot him a toothy grin. Bakura plucked a second sheet of paper from his hands. "What're we doing exactly?" he asked as he plopped down next to Ryou.

Ryou scratched his neck. "You know, I really don't know." He laughed, a light hearted sound Bakura doubted he'd heard escape Ryou's mouth before. Bakura smirked. Which instantly froze on his face and slid off when Ryou called Yami over to clarify.

"Do you have any idea how this works?" He gestured at the paper filled with what must have been Joey's signature chicken scratch.

Yami set a hand on Bakura's shoulder and leaned over him to assess the instructions better. Bakura squashed the flinch that desperately wanted to shudder through his upper back. Bakura yanked his shoulder forward, and Yami slipped. He hid a smirk, especially when Ryou's head tilted towards him in a disapproving frown. Yami had to step awkwardly to regain his balance much to Bakura's pleasure. Ryou angry at him in defense of his friends and disgracing Yami: ah normalcy. He ignored the small pang in his chest, shoving all his thoughts aside to pretend he cared about the rules of some stupid made up game.

And, oh was it stupid. After Yami finished explaining the mechanic of the game—Bakura suspected he had devised this game as it seemed contrived to allow Yugi or Yami the win, or whoever started as the leader. Yes, very contrived. Bakura tossed the papers down, satisfied when the top most sheet floated away on a breeze.

He stalked off, intent on returning to the quiet of his towel. At least he could nurse his headache in peace. Sod Ryou's opinion of him. He laid down on the towel, facedown and pressed his forehead into the warm sand. With his eyes close, he could pretend to sleep. He inhaled a deep breath, and for a moment nothing hurt—not his head, not his arm, not his gut. When had that started hurting, he wondered.

A prodding, someone's, a dead someone's, finger jabbed at his arm. Thankfully the finger poked against his upper arm which was relatively free of open wounds. He only cut there when his forearms ached too much to cut up. The cuts on his upper arm tended to be deeper, and the wounds didn't bleed enough quite frankly. Bakura rolled over on his side, propping his head on his arm. Unconsciously, he grasped the edge of his shirt sleeve in his palm.

"What do you want, Pharaoh?" he snapped as the sun flashed in his eyes, reminding him he felt like shit.

Yami kneeled next to him and spoke in what must've been a forced neutral tone. "Ryou's worried about you. Said you seemed more distant than usual."

Bakura snorted. As if Ryou said anything to Yami. Now that his health was improving, Ryou tended to bring up his qualms regarding Bakura himself, a habit Bakura wasn't sure if he liked or not. "Fuck off, you don't really give a damn," he drawled, letting the words roll slowly off his tongue.

Yami frowned, but stood up with a huff. "Fine," he practically hissed. "You're right. I don't care." He hesitated, staring down at Bakura. His silhouette partially eclipsed the sun, but not well enough for Bakura to remain silent about Yami's lingering presence.

Bakura waved his opposite head, momentarily forgetting about the loose sleeve. He caught himself seconds later, and snarled at Yami and his goddamn furled brows. "Fuck. Off."

Finally, Yami did. Bakura flopped back to the ground, his muscles trembling at the exertion of keeping himself propped upright. He really did feel ill. He blamed the beach, the humid sun, and his weak resolve. For the next beach venture, he was staying home. Hell, it probably would be more entertaining than watching Yugi in the far off distance of the ocean single handily winning some pathetic fake game.

An hour later, he remained lounging on a towel on the sand, considering different methods to escape the sun, while the rest of the group ran around in the water scantily clad. Only Ryou remained, still wearing the clothes he had worn over in the car, a loose fitting short sleeved top and baggy track pants.

A wet hand dropped on Bakura and Ryou's shoulders. Ryou let out a high pitched shriek, while Bakura flipped his head around to speak venom and enact homicide on the idiot foolish enough… Joey laughed maniacally. "Come join us."

"No."

"I'm good here," Ryou said. He tugged at the top of his shirt, twisting the material.

Joey narrowed his eyes. "You're letting that affect you?" he spoke in a low, no nonsense tone. "Go in as you are then."

"I couldn't," Ryou shook his head and twisted his shirt fabric more.

"Yes you can!" Joey grasped Ryou by the arm, physically dragging him to the ocean. Bakura smirked. He fell back against the towel and closed his eyes, letting the heat lull him to a slumber.

He slept soundly, until four arms lifted him up off the ground. He twisted in their grasp, trying to wrangle out of Tristan's and Joey's catch with sheer will power fruitlessly, until he landed with a splash into four feet of water. He pummeled to the bottom, hitting grainy sand with his back, before reacting. He came up, splashing and gasping, breathing in deep lungful of oxygen, amidst laughter. His cheeks burned and he felt nauseous.

"Fucking idiots!"

A/N:

I believe I already mentioned Japanese currency: the lazy way of converting it (to US dollars) is to take off two decimal places. ¥520 becomes $5.20, which (in my lazy conversion) a pound is worth twice as much as the US dollar (£5=$10). It's not; it's more like 2/3, but oh currency rates… $5.20=£3.36 by the way.

Bakura's clothing choices for the beach would not be too out of place in Japan. At least no one would question him like they would in where I live. Yes, people will wear bathing suits in Japan, but choosing to cover up your arms/chest isn't unheard of. Also, no one will question him because it's 1998, and in Japan, cutting was almost unheard of so they don't know what they're suspicious of. I did sort of describe the climate of a Japanese beach in the story, with the make shift tens and barbeque meals, however Bakura and the rest are teenagers and I imagine even kids are more relaxed on the beach than family units or adult guests.