A/N: An update! What an odd occurrence, huh? I have an author's note at the end where I angst over the editing process of this and coming chapters, if that explains my pause in updates?

Chapter 16: The Beach Part 2

When the mad rage seeped from Bakura, he was left with a startling realization. Dripping wet, chest deep in salty ocean water, Bakura grasped at his swimming trunks, suddenly aware of the pockets' lack of security. He fumbled with the pockets, eyes widening as he realized the card was missing, that his blades were missing.

"You fucking idiots!" he screamed, enraged, causing pandemonium with the general public. He felt more than just Joey's and Tristan's eyes on him, but in his panic and haste to find his card, he could care less. His fingers flexed, and he needed to cut, right now, now that he didn't have the comforting presence of the blades that were almost always at his reach within the pocket of whatever he had been wearing.

He plunged down into the water, vainly trying to search the murky ocean water. The sea salt stung at his eyes as he touched his palm against the bottom of the ocean, scraping uselessly at the sand and rock ground. After diving down two more times, eyes burning and sea salt tracks dripping and hardening on his face, Bakura gave up, walking back to the shore, slowly, eyes narrowed and fists clenched. His lips pressed together in a deep scowl.

When he returned to the towel he had been sleeping on, Yugi and Ryou were waiting, both dripping wet with equally apologetic grimaces on their faces. Bakura dropped onto the towel, sitting like Ryou, knees to his chest, arms hanging over his legs effectively burying his ashen face.

He burrowed his feet into the sand granules, pretending the pinpricks and nicks on his feet equaled the relief of a cut. Why had he brought his blades with him, he wondered as he remained in his hunched up position. Fuck. Logically he knew he could acquire more razor blades; he still had the glass shard from the mirror somewhere in his room. He had something, but he couldn't fathom the lack of blades at this immediate moment. He felt a sense of urgency, a need to steal another razor from the closest convenience store, right now.

Every thought shifted to how he could get a hold of a sharp object. He couldn't imagine the next four odd stretch of hours without cutting (not that he left the apartment with any intent to cut), but none of that mattered as his logical reason flushed away into swirling cacophony of ego. He bit the inside of his cheek against the complex emotions, thick and tangible; he wished he had a blade to bleed out all of the shit from today. Hell, he wished he'd never agreed to go in the first place.

"Here," a tan hand halted near his nose. Bakura opened his eyes, not moving from his curled up balled position. His eyebrows arched, and he startled when he realized what Yami was holding. "Is this yours or Ryou's?"

Bakura batted at the card. "Hand it over."

Yami glared. "You're welcome," he said in a nasty tone that Bakura would have replied to with his own scornful comment if he wasn't so desperate for the card and the blades back. He stared intently at the card, which Yami held upside down. Bakura's heart pounded in his chest; he made another attempt to grab the card from Yami's hand, which was a couple inches out of reach.

Yami retracted the card, looking at Bakura quizzically. "What's that from?"

Bakura glanced down at his arm out of habit. Blood pounded in his ears and his legs went numb. He sucked in a breath. Through his water soaked shirt, he could just make out a distinct red line against his inner arm. He pinned his arm to his side, frantically grasping at air with his opposite arm, striving to grab the Change of Heart card.

"None of your business, Pharaoh!" his voice cracked.

Ryou leaned forward to get a better look at what Yami pointed out with his index finger. "When'd you get hurt?"

Vision clearing, Bakura noticed where Yami's eyes were. He glanced a look down at his knee where a tiny white scar stood out, reflecting off the natural light. He could've sagged to his knees in relief. His head started pounding anew as the adrenaline dissipated. "For fuck's sake, I don't know!"

Finally wrapping fingers around his card, Bakura wrenched it from Yami's grasp. He flipped it upright, feeling the familiar weight shift as at least one blade sink to the bottom. He jammed the card back in his swimming trunks pocket, and stalked off.

Bakura stomped up the sandy beach, up to the gravel of the parking lot and past a play park designed for toddlers. He spared a fraction of a glance for a young—four at best—boy with an unruly mob of brown hair and his, he assumed, mother, before heading into a thicket of trees that bordered a further back, more remote playground. He settled himself far enough in the tress to not be visible to anyone passing by, but close enough the playground, with less plastic and more older metal and wooden equipment was available for older kids, was within sight.

Bakura slumped against a tree trunk and let his body slide to the ground. He dropped his head into his palms, and returned to his curled-up-in-a-ball position, resting his elbows on his folded knees. He already started the day—hell, the past two weeks—feeling like shit. On top of it, he was soaked from head to foot, and the cold in the shadows of the woodsy area was not helping, but this was the only place he could hide out until his sleeves dried.

He watched a group of eight to ten year old children play on the park equipment. They had driven a few hours from the city of Domino out to the rural country side, and the difference was staggering. The little park his feet dragged himself to on a semi regular basis fifteen minutes from Ryou's apartment was comprised of mostly plastic equipment designed for young children; only the swings were metal, but even those were covered with strips of plastic. Out here, with the seemingly never ending sky and one or two story buildings, the park was much more expansive.

Even in his time as the parasite in Ryou's body, he had never seen a park so, well, rustic looking, so he continued to watch the kids obliviously and ignorantly play in the luxurious park as he tried to stave off the drowning sensation coiling in circles round his head. He had long since propped his chin on his hands to properly watch the children run through wooden tower structures and race across the pebbled ground.

Every so often, he saw a glimpse of Ryou or, oddly enough, Yami wandering in the area they believed he ran off, through the trees in front of him, and his heart raced in his chest. As they alternatively passed over the wooden park and, consequently, the woods, his breathing slowed and he returned to his almost meditative state of watching the children play. His mind shut off, and he did not think for a glorious hour or two.

Finally, as the sun raised higher on the sky, the children, one by one, were called off by various parents, and the group disbanded, leaving Bakura with nothing to halt his thoughts. He inspected his sleeves and drug his card protector out of his pocket. He heaved a sigh, and pulled himself up off the grass and walked back the way he came.

Bakura returned after affirming that two of his blades were still in the back of the card protector. He tried to shrug off the worry that someone would find the third, since the card was still dry, so it had not made it into the water, rather fell somewhere in the sand, and pin the sharp object on him. He looked at his arm. The sleeves had dried enough to increase the opacity of the material. The cuts were no longer visible. Satisfied, he walked back to his towel, where the others had also laid out their towels and were unearthing their respective bentos.

He sat next to Ryou, who handed him the bento he had made for him. Bakura shook his head. "Not hungry," he muttered, which was true. After the morning he'd had, his stomach was still knotted. The sun's direct rays were making him queasy. He rested his head on his knees vainly to block out the bright light.

Ryou chewed slowly on the bit of rice ball in his mouth, slowly. After a full minute he swallowed, toying with the rice ball in his hands, passing it back and forth, rather than bringing it back up to his mouth. Bakura noticed the interaction from his vantage point, eyes slit, peaking up over his knees.

Though Yugi continued talking about their plans for the afternoon and Solomon's imminent return to pick them up, Joey and Tristan were staring unabashedly at Ryou. Joey opened his mouth once, seemed to realize Yugi was talking, and then closed it without speaking.

Bakura growled, lifting his head slightly to glare up into Ryou's eyes. "Just eat your fucking lunch," he snapped, lowering his head, but still looking at Ryou.

Ryou's demeanor brightened and he picked up his discarded rice ball, taking a tentative bite out of it.

"That's not helpful," Marik said in response to Bakura's harsh words. Bakura said nothing, just glared harder.

Ryou merely smiled. He finished off the rest of his rice ball.

Just as expected, and much to Bakura's relief, Solomon arrived not long after the group had finished their lunches, the empty bentos neatly packed away in their separate bags. Everyone found themselves crammed into the borrowed, western style van for the couple hour long trip back to Domino.

"I'm bored." Joey's whining cut through the silence of the car.

Tristan glanced over, both of his eyebrows raised, his lack of concern evident. "And what would you like us to do about it?" Make him shut up, for starters, Bakura thought as he slouched further in his seat and leaned his head against the window. He pressed his aching head into the cool glass.

Joey twisted himself at his lower back from where he sat in the front seat, opposite of Solomon (his second transparent attempt at driving), and lunged himself at Yugi. Bakura scowled in his seat as Ryou leaned in his direction. Ryou leaned at him, as opposed to on him, much to Bakura's relief. The quiet boy shot Bakura a small smile unbeknownst to the rest of the group. Yugi maneuvered himself, plastering himself to the opposite window, away from Ryou and Bakura.

Joey stared pleadingly into Yugi's eyes. "Yug," he implored with a wide-eyed expression of desperation. Exaggerated desperation, but genuine enough to invoke Yugi's sympathetic pat on Joey's shoulder. "Please. Entertain me."

Yugi shook his head, as Yami leaned forward. The Pharaoh's hand brushed unawares at the edge of Bakura's shoulder length hair. He bristled further against the window as the idiot deigned to speak. "I understand you're bored, but how is Yugi supposed to help?"

Joey shrugged. "I dunno."

At Joey's nonchalance, Bakura snapped back, voicing his thoughts, "Then why don't you silence yourself." Permanently, his mind added.

"That's not called for," Tea chimed in, from her seat behind Ryou, as Joey tempted fate and the short fuse ire's of Bakura and Tristan, and spouted off, "If anyone should shut up, it's you." He jerked a thumb at Tristan. Or Bakura. The action wasn't certain as the two were separated only by the strip of fake leather that Bakura's seat was comprised of.

Who cares, really who the fuck cares!? Bakura seethed as the argument between Joey and Tristan escalated. As expected, Tristan assumed Joey had been insinuating he was at fault and the insults volleyed back and forth over Bakura's slouched head. He crossed his arms tightly in front of him—in part to prevent either of the two idiots from falling into his lap. He scowled deeper at the thought. The cuts on his arms rubbed painfully, sending little jolts that kind of, but not quite, calmed him.

He felt the edge of the plastic card holder rub at his leg through the thin fabric of his swim shorts. A tiny sensation of plastic against his thigh: serving as a reminder of what he would rather be doing. Argh. He curled a hand into a fist as Tristan launched himself over the seat right by Bakura, causing the hairs on his neck to stand up at the unexpected presence.

His fist clamped around black tendrils of hair, and he yanked. Four small chunks, a little over twenty individual strands curled around his fisted fingers and the anger receded enough so he could think. Bakura let the mostly black-with-a-hint-of-his-natural-white-hair-color strands fall slowly to the floor, unnoticed by any of the other occupants. With both hands free, Bakura shoved Tristan's backside, projecting the other boy into the one he was screaming obscenities at.

Tristan, after regaining his equilibrium, shot around. One hand already curled into a fist, Tristan screamed, "What the fuck was that for?"

"He's right. What was that?" Joey chimed in, changing his argument to side with his friend. Bakura swerved to the side and caught Tristan's now uselessly flopping arm. He shoved the sudden onslaught of disgust under his anger. He let the rage that had been bubbling below a thin surface free. Anger drove away the emotions that made him seethe to begin with. Feeling whole, alive, as the rage burned at his nerve endings, he sucked in a deep breath.

Bakura smirked, his response carved against the icy exterior of his stone gaze. Everything is his body froze as the anger rage snapped icy pellets through his nerve endings. After a long, tense for the others, moment, the argument dwindled into silence, and the cold rage trickled away, leaving Bakura numb. He let his body relax and returned to leaning against the window. He still didn't feel well, and the impromptu flight-or-fight reactions sapped whatever strength he had.

A couple hours later, Bakura and Ryou entered their apartment, alone, much to Bakura's cheer. The silence Bakura's snarl created only lasted for a quarter hour, until Joey, once again, pleaded with every passenger (sans Bakura) to provide him entertainment. In the last half hour of the trip, Tristan voiced the most vile and equally unappealing comment: "If you're so bored, why don't you play puppy to your master."

And the queasiness had returned full force. Bakura's stomach rolled when Joey dazedly questioned, "Who?" He jerked his head across the length of the vehicle, back and forth. After a moment's thought, his face screwed up in a physical manifestation of Bakura's nausea. Rage quickly replaced the sickened expression. "You talking about Kaiba!" And he lunged over Ryou, who, unprepared, fell against Bakura (he suppressed a groan at the added weight on his tender cut).

Thirty minutes later, Ryou set the bentos on the counter. Observing Bakura's still uneaten bento, he called Bakura over.

"You okay?" he asked, bringing up a hand. Bakura flinched. Ryou paused, and then continued to rest his palm on Bakura's forehead. "Your cheeks are flushed." He placed his hand on his own forehead then returned it to Bakura's. "And you feel warm." He scrutinized Bakura.

Bakura shrugged, stepping from one foot to the other, staring off in the direction of the hallway. He curled his fingers around the card in his pocket. His throat tightened, as Ryou continued to mother him. "I feel fine," he said finally. He quickly dredged up hair thin excuses, anything to force Ryou's attention elsewhere. "It's not like I had time to eat on the ride home."

"I think you have a fever," Ryou said, ignoring his protests, as he led Bakura to the couch by his hand. "Come lay down." Bakura, too hot and miserable to continue fighting him, relented, allowed himself to be lead, and collapsed on the couch.

Ryou picked up the beach bags and set them in the kitchen, returning with a cloth rag and a small bowl of ice water. He kneeled next to Bakura and wrung out the rag into the bowl. The last thing Bakura remembered was a cold cloth being pressed against his forehead and the alleviation of the unbearable humidity as his eyes shut and he drifted off.

A/N:

Oh the foreshadowing, guys. This chapter and last chapter: remember them. Apparently that's what I do when I can't think of scenes, I sneak in tidbits of future plot lines. I'm not sure how soon the next chapters will be up. I need to come up with a *lot* of material, because I was apparently I was high when I wrote the next four chapters (no, I really was pretty baked on legal-with-a-prescription opiates last summer).

If there are any glaring spelling errors in the text, I apologize. I usually give it a more thorough editing, but I figured a missed spelling error or two is better than waiting even longer for the chapter.