A/N: Please read the author note at the bottom (and review with lovely comments on the new cover image to celebrate the half way mark ^_^).

Chapter 17: Fever

The next few days passed in a feverish stupor, as Bakura drifted in and out of consciousness, semi-aware of Ryou's devoted bed side manner. Every so often, he would drag himself off the couch, amidst the gut churning nausea and splitting headache to join Ryou at the table for meals. Which he usually ate a bite or two before returning to the couch, less the nausea bring up more than just bile. Ryou met him after some time, with a cold compress, thermometer and steaming bowl of fish stock.

"I hate this," he groaned into a couch cushion, head buried into the crook of the arm and the seat of the couch.

Ryou kneeled next to him, eyebrows raised, pulling off amused concern effortlessly. He held the bowl of broth near Bakura's face, offering it as a truce.

Bakura's stomach clenched at the salty smell wafting to his nose. He retaliated, further burrowing himself into the couch. "I hate you."

Ryou set the bowl down with a soft clink. "I'll take that as a no then," he said softly. The phone rang, loudly, shrilly reverberating and bouncing in Bakura's skull. He clenched at his ears with his fists. Ryou stood and walked over to the phone, answering, "Hello, Bakura residence."

He twisted the phone cord in his hands as the person on the other end spoke, thankfully, at a low enough octave Bakura could not make out the actual words. "Oh, hi Yugi." He leaned against the wall, looking in Bakura's direction, all the while twisting the cord. "Um no, I'm sorry. Bakura's home sick." A pause as Yugi spoke; Bakura held his aching head in his hands from his face down position on the couch, wishing dearly the conversation would end. Soon.

"Yeah, I hope it goes well? I'll call if anything changes." Ryou said his goodbyes and hung up, returning to kneel next to Bakura.

"At least let me get a temp," he said while grabbing the thermometer. Bakura begrudging rolled over enough to take the thermometer from Ryou and stick it under his tongue. If being granted another chance at life resulted in illness, they—whomever the disembodied spiritual paradigms that may or may not have given him the opportunity—could just end his existence now.

After a moment, the thermometer beeped. Ryou looked at it, reading off the temperature. "You definitely have a fever. It's 38." Bakura groaned, and Ryou looked over Bakura, noticing his choice of apparel for the first time.

"Why don't you change into something cooler," he suggested, already on his feet at the prospect of any doable task.

"I'm fine," Bakura muttered, partially too ill to be bothered with changing, partially acutely aware of the tell-tale scars on his arms. Ryou walked into Bakura's room, regardless, and returned a few moments later with quite possibly the only short sleeved shirt Bakura owned and a pair of shorts.

"Here, all the gopher work is done for you," Ryou said brightly.

Bakura lifted his face from the couch. "I said I was fine."

Ryou folded and unfolded the shirt, mostly to keep himself busy, to feel useful against the illness that wreaked havoc in Bakura's body. "We should get you some summer clothes too, after you feel better." He held the clothes out for Bakura.

Bakura swatted the clothes away, flinging them across the room. "Fuck! I said I was fine. Just let me be, okay!?"

Silence filled the room. Ryou stooped to pick up the discarded clothes. "Fine," he said coolly, walking away from Bakura.

A few hours later, not that Bakura was aware of the length of time, he awoke to the icy contrast of Ryou placing a damp washcloth to his forehead. "Sorry," he mumbled, half asleep.

"It's alright," Ryou said, speaking mostly to himself. "I know you don't feel well." He sat down next to Bakura's feet, at the opposite end of the couch, actually sitting upright, rather than slouching into an armchair or curling into a ball.

Bakura, still disoriented from being forced awake, chose to stare openly at Ryou, mind too foggy to supply the correct words to form any inquiry at Ryou's odd mannerisms. As Ryou's own inquisitive gaze washed over him, he found himself the suspect of interrogation.

Ryou placed a hand on his arm, specifically an arm covered in cuts and scars underneath the thin fabric of his shirt. Ice might as well been dumped over his head as Bakura reacted instantly and violently. He yanked his arm from Ryou and, as extra protection, folded his arms to his chest.

Ryou's eyes followed the motion of Bakura's reaction and something in his expression shifted, as if he were moments from unearthing King Tut's tomb. "It's over 30 degrees out, you're running a temp, so why are you in long sleeves?"

The light in Ryou's eyes dimmed, and, in that instant, Bakura knew if he waited for the light to return, Ryou's mind would provide the answer. His insides turned to mush and he screamed away the sensation, like lies, dribbling down his back, "I'm cold! I'm sick, and I'm miserable! For fuck's sake, why does it matter!?"

"Because!" Ryou shoved off the couch and towered over Bakura. "You think I can't tell that you're not happy? I know what it's like to not be happy, okay?" His cheeks flushed red, and his eyes watered.

Bakura rolled over to face the inside of the couch, nose against the back cushion. "Happy!? I'm fine!"

Ryou snorted. When he spoke after a moment, his voice was more level, calm. "You just admitted it yourself, Bakura. You aren't happy. Fine is not happy."

Bakura flipped round the couch, forcing himself into a sitting position with the aid of adrenaline pouring through his veins. He noted Ryou had moved to kneel next to him. Bakura's abrupt movement knocked Ryou off kilter, and Bakura automatically reached out with a hand to catch Ryou's grasp. "Fine is fine. It doesn't matter."

Ryou made to grab at Bakura's wrist, while their fingers remained intertwined together. Once Ryou was obviously balanced upright, Bakura wrenched his arm from Ryou's seeking fingers, and resumed his defensive arm crossing. Ryou said, "Yeah, fine. Just about as fine as me."

Any strength the adrenaline had lent him had since drained away, leaving Bakura weak once more, so he allowed the exhaustion to take over him. He melted back into the couch cushion, jerking his head away from Ryou. "Just fuck off," he mumbled.

Why was he doing this? The thought remained at the forefront of Bakura's consciousness, which was a grandiose statement, as Bakura was barely conscious. He was officially sick. After weeks of avoiding it, Ryou's cool hand on his aching forehead and the more damning plastic rod of the electric thermometer confirmed it. To top it off, the affection the quiet boy smothered him with surely must be making the symptoms worse.

Well, Ryou hadn't been all that friendly since their fight, Bakura supposed it was… The rest of the evening…he thinks had passed…Ryou continued to dutifully tend to him, bringing him whatever he needed complete with a frosty look and a scowl that reminded him the conversation was not over…

He shrugged that thought into his subconscious, wishing he could just as easily shove away the pounding in his head or the present nausea that assaulted him every time he thought of food or eating, or the constant aching from the cuts on his arm.

Regardless, sick and miserable, he walked to the convenience store about a block from Ryou's apartment with the intent to shoplift…something. Honestly, it didn't matter what Bakura shoved in his pockets, anything, any slight thrill to make the all-encompassing wretchedness of illness lift for a moment. He stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets as he trudged the last few feet to the store's entrance, where a sales associate greeted him cheerfully. He nodded out of reflex and immediately regretted it. He snarled at the floor as his head pounded in a new rhythm, a reminder: yes, the headache was in fact, still present.

He had to sneak out while Ryou was sleeping. The boy hardly left him to his own devices, clucking around like a right mother hen, checking in on him. He pursed his lips as he perused the aisles aimlessly. He could always get more blades, especially since one of his was currently resting under layers of sand. That, or washed away by the sea.

He supposed Ryou's action were justified, since he barely made his way off the couch for the first half of the week. Sleeping in his bed—even with the far to snug fitted sheets Ryou had replaced his single cover sheet with—had been a liberating experience. He looked at razors along a row of overpriced personal care products, and ignored the niggling thought that he currently was caged by this fucking cold or flu, or whatever the hell it was.

He had never been this sick in his former life. Never, he swore to himself as he slipped a single razor from the paper binding and shoved the freed object into his jeans pocket, along with his fisted hands—one hand in each pocket. His heart raced (not in a dizzying, sickly way) and a smile tugged at his lips. Everything awful, the fever that plagued his body, thoughts of cutting muddied by images of swirling red, the aloneness he had felt as he hid in the woods by the beach, even yesterdays fight with Ryou's suspicions dissipated.

He was happy. In that moment, as the automated doors closed behind him, silencing the sales associate for once and all, he was able to breathe. And all was well.

Bakura tripped his way back to the apartment, the couple minutes' walk stretching into a half hour as black dots pirouetted across his vision. Which would not have been so debilitating save for the morning sun rising on the distant horizon bleeding into rainbow squiggles that joined into a duet. He weaved dangerously on the, thankfully, empty sidewalk back to the apartment.

It was nothing short of miraculous when he crossed the parking lot, and breezed through the door. The dinging of the elevator intensified the pounding in his head.

Bakura leaned against the wall, curious of Ryou's whereabouts. He contemplated that as he ignored the nausea induced by the floating sensation of the elevator navigating up eight floors. He hadn't planned for the extra time he had needed walking to and from the store due to his illness—in fact he had simply left the apartment at just before dawn, whenever he happened to wake and feeling particularly sorry for himself.

Dinging again: Bakura hissed and crept slowly through the hallway to Ryou's apartment. Ryou, even in the summer, rose ridiculously early. Sometime before noon, Bakura surmised that much, but he wasn't quite sure what time. Though, there had been a few nights where Bakura would be closing his eyes for the night as Ryou was puttering around in his closet for a change of clothes.

His heart pounded in his chest at the realization. He wasn't nearly well enough to pull off any level of subversion. He accepted his fate with a sigh, and opened the apartment door with firm resignation. Really, his thoughts shifted to defensiveness, there was nothing illegal about taking a walk (and it's not like Ryou knew specifically what he had been up to during said walk).

He kicked his shoes off and stepped into the kitchen, prepared for a half-asleep Ryou—reprimand and all.

Silence. The room, and the rest of the apartment, was shrouded in darkness, letting the pink hues of the rising sun filter into the living room windows. Bakura glanced around, taking in Ryou's closed door, his door, which was still arched open slightly from when he had left. Disappointment settled where his heart had been racing.

Whatever. Bakura shook off the feeling, and focused on the most beneficial aspect of Ryou soundly sleeping through his very poor attempt of stealth. At least he didn't have to deal with an irate Ryou this early/late in the day. Bakura slunk off to his own room, and closed the door behind him.

There wasn't a proper word to describe how miserable Bakura felt, lying, dying, on the living room couch later in the morning—especially with Ryou acting as a nurse maid with a grudge, complete with cold compresses, steaming bowls of broth, and a surly glower gracing his countenance. He could not remember an instance in his former life where he had been so damn sick. His head hurt; his body ached; his stomach twisted itself into awkward positions making him want to hurl; he couldn't think his way out of his clouded mind, let along any sort of conversation with Ryou.

Hell, he couldn't remember most of the conversations he had with Ryou since Sunday? Bakura decided to halt that train of thought, as trying to figure what day of the week or how much span of time passed was too difficult in his muddled, pathetic state. Instead, he resumed his position on the couch, dying.

He smirked at ceiling as he remembered the razor in his room. At least he could still thieve in any condition. Footsteps marched their way to him and Bakura wiped any traces of smirk from his expression. He rolled his head over at Ryou, who stood in front of the couch with two bowls, one of cold water, and the other, of hot broth. He sat up and weakly grasped the hot broth, refusing to let the dark thoughts show on his face.

He hated this lack of freedom. It had been less than a week (he thought), and he was ready to do something, anything, to escape the melancholia of dependence. He forced a muttered gratitude to Ryou and carefully sipped the broth, lest it return.

This illness needed to end.

Bakura woke up sometime late in the afternoon, going by the steadily setting sun. The apartment was lit up with bright orange light, similar to the color of the sky, streaked with vibrant, rose petal pinks. Ryou dozed lightly in the chair, but awoke to the sound of Bakura sitting up. His head still hurt, and he still felt dazed, but he was coherent.

"Why'd Yugi call?" Bakura asked, making conversation more than general curiosity, their most recent fight forgotten, until just after he had spoken aloud to Ryou. He tried to remember how many days ago that phone call was, too.

"He wanted to know if we wanted to set up for the tournament," non-plussed, Ryou said as he handed Bakura the thermometer. Apparently, Ryou was lest actively hostile, for now. Bakura nodded, placing it under his tongue. The dueling tournament, right. That was sometime this month, he knew.

When the thermometer beeped, he handed it back to Ryou, asking, "When is it?"

"This Saturday," Ryou said, staring at the number on the thermometer. He furrowed his brows. "Still high."

"What's today?" Bakura asked. After a moment of Ryou staring blankly at the thermometer, he offered, "I'm feeling better." He was coherent, but not necessarily better, but a low grade fever wasn't much to fuss about. He certainly hadn't in his past life in Egypt.

"Thursday," Ryou said at last, still looking worried with his face all scrunched up. "I'm calling a doctor if you're still running a temperature come Saturday…"

Bakura drug himself off the couch, standing unsteadily, though he didn't elaborate that to Ryou, as if to prove he truly felt less ill. He walked the way to his room on autopilot. Though he felt like shit, sweaty and chilled simultaneously, light headed, like a balloon attached to a string body, legs akin to jelly ready to collapse underneath him, he made it to his room and closed the door.

Everything was shit. Everything just seemed so pointless. Bakura hunched over his knees as he sat on his bed behind the closed door in his room for one of the few times this week—yet he couldn't enjoy the feeling. Sure, he was sick, which contributed to his shit mood, but the physical aches and pains of this…fever, Ryou had termed it, highlighted the melancholy that threatened to suffocate him.

Hell, he was surprised Ryou was speaking to him again; at the same time, the undercurrent of guilt threatened to engulf him. Why was Ryou not angry anymore? Along with being kicked in the ass by this awful illness, he still felt mediocre compared to Ryou. He couldn't even be happy right.

He didn't want to live.

A silence buzzed noisily in his mind long after the thought monopolized him at his core. He clenched his teeth. Of course he wanted to live, he told himself fiercely. It's not that he wanted to die… He kicked at a random pile of clothes, interrupting the flow of his thoughts and smiled at what he had revealed.

He relaxed on the bed after unearthing the Change of Heart card from beneath a pile of clothes. He tipped the card over, spilling the two blades into his palm. He exhaled as he held one blade in his fingers. Even miserable with a fever, he wanted this.

Bakura stared up at the razor blade as he ruminated cutting. On one level, it seemed excessive to harm himself while he already hurt so much. He gnawed at his bottom lip. But, this kind of pain was different, and it wasn't necessarily the pain he appreciated. After the downward shift of his thoughts, cutting, well cutting seemed right.

He rolled up his sleeve, oblivious to the older cuts on his arm as he looked for a new patch of skin to mark up. As he pressed the blade to his arm, he couldn't feel any of his fever related symptoms. Everything tunneled into one single line, which slowly filled with red and spilled over on to his arm.

When the blood clotted a few moments later, he tugged his sleeve down, and returned to the living room, where Ryou shot him a confused look. "Where'd you go?"

He settled back onto the couch as the pounding in his head started anew. Now, with the aching in his head, the perspiration making him fell unclean, the shivers that wracked his body, causing his very bones to ache, the general unpleasantness of being sick, his arm stung under his sleeve. He inhaled deeply through his nose. "Nothing important," he said, answering Ryou's unasked question.

A/N:

Bakura's temperature is taken in Celsius, because it is Japan. 38C=100.4F, so Ryou's more worried about the length of Bakura's illness than the temperature at this point. 30C is 86F, so it's miserable and muggy.

I have a proposition for you readers: the next plot arc (aka Fall) is surprisingly bare, so I wonder, is there anything you guys want to see in Insignificant? I might not be able to use every idea (especially major plot points, because those are solid), but small scenes…