A/N: I alluded to this chapter back in chapter six, so here you go, one of the bigger chapters (until chapter 25-26ish?). ^_^

Guest: Is he? What clues has Bakura given that he is self harming up to this point? This is mostly from Bakura's POV so we don't really get to see the narrowed view Yami is presented with. Aside from the occasionally playing with his sleeves or a dueling card, I don't think Bakura has many suspicious behaviors. That, and self harm wasn't really acknowledged in Japan until the early 2000s. If anyone should've cottoned on to Bakura, it's Ryou, but for ED shadowed vision. My rambling aside, I'm glad you enjoyed the chapter.

Chapter 20: September 2, 1998 Part 1

The dueling tournament, which Yugi won hands down, and Bakura's illness marked the end of summer break. By the time the new term rolled around, Bakura had taken his medication for a week, and was no longer plagued by infection. He never breathed a word to Ryou about the true reason behind his illness, and it was written off as some weird summer bug. He sat down, in accordance with the new seating chart, in his new seat near the large bay window, close to the middle of the room.

He smirked aware this was prime seating for languid students, where he could effortlessly pull off motivated and still fuck off during classes. Ryou looked at him, with an odd expression, pinched eyebrows and a frown upon his face, from across the room. Bakura pretended not to notice the look he had been receiving from Ryou since the doctor's visit. The memory of the perfectly straight white lines on the doctor's wrist only encouraged Bakura to try cutting in more parallel lines for future aesthetics.

He rubbed at his arms at that thought. He continued to bring the card with him, currently tucked into his uniform pants pocket. There was still ten minutes before homeroom ended; he could slip off to the toilets… He clenched his hands into fists at the thought. Over the course of the past week, as felt progressively better, he found himself cutting just because. Boredom steadfastly became a perfectly acceptable reason to cut his arms.

He snaked a finger up the cuff of his new winter uniform sleeve (most of the class whined about the switchover, demanding to be allowed to wear the summer uniform due to the inclimate weather) and rubbed along the cuts. He relaxed as he felt the ridges and peaks.

"Bakura," a low voice drew Bakura out of his thoughts and calm reverie. He glanced over at the voice to meet the deep purple of Yami's irises. He jerked his hand out of his sleeve, placing his more injured arm on his lap.

"What?" Bakura asked, preferring to stick with monosyllables.

Yami crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. "Are you feeling better?" he asked after a long moment of sulking.

"Fine." Bakura glared down at his desk, mind flashing with past recollections of harming himself, back to the very first time he cut into Ryou's arm during Battle City. Bakura raised an eyebrow at Yami, expressing his irritation with the new seating order as Yami sat in the seat next to his. Bakura's lips curled at the thought of sitting next to Yami for the next trimester, until the New Year.

The class quieted, standing up to bow, as the homeroom teacher, Kobayashi, walked in, and school was back in session, officially, on Friday, September second.

Lunch was outside in the courtyard where Bakura sat at the very edge of the group eating the bento Ryou prepared for him in silence as Ryou, Tea, Yugi, Yami, Marik, Joey, and Tristan conversed back and forth. He ignored the prickling feelings of loneliness and instead observed Ryou eating the majority of his own lunch. The only other positive was lunch signified the halfway point in the day. Directly after was an elective.

Bakura reigned in a snort at the term elective as the teacher, Minami, he think she introduced herself as, a young female not much older physically than he, explained the nature of the class. "If you think this will be an easy class, you will be in for a surprise…" Again, Bakura resisted the urge to snort at the young teacher's claims. This class, this elective that was in fact compulsory, was still, just, an art class. As if drawing pretty pictures or painting landscapes could ever be anything of worth. Judging from his classmates' expressions (including Joey and Tristan) of disbelief, Bakura safely assumed that was the general consensus. Ryou and Yugi were far too polite to express otherwise, and Marik was happy with any class that didn't involve ancient teachers. Most of the class agreed with Bakura's sentiment as the teacher prattled on the benefits of the arts.

He couldn't imagine when anything related to art would ever affect his life. Bakura tuned out most of the teacher's speech, only picking up the skeleton of information: first project, a week or so of still life work, followed by the second project which she would explain the next week. "I have high hopes for the project and am looking forward to working with you all on it!"

The optimism that dripped off of her made Bakura want to shirk away. He heard Tristan mutter something along the lines of "fresh out of college" to Joey a few rows ahead of him. Kobayashi was an idiot for pairing those two together, Bakura thought as their mutterings increased in pitch to where Bakura could hear the insults of "fresh meat" and "looking nice in that" or general remarks on the lack of age difference quite clearly, so surely Minami could as well.

"Alright class, as you can see I set up four still life displays, one in each corner of the room. Imagine there are four equal sections in the room. Your section is responsible to draw that still life. The back corner will draw the still life in the back right corner…" This time, Bakura did groan. He massaged his face with his hands. Yep, it was going to be fan-fucking-tastic term seated next to the Pharaoh who looked at him with an ever inquisitive expression.

Afterschool found Bakura sitting cross legged on the floor of his bedroom, back pressed against the bed. He wore a pair of shorts; his change of shirt lay next to him on the floor, a light gray long sleeved tee shirt. He cut at his exposed arms indiscriminately with one of his razor blades. He tugged the piece of metal through his soft flesh, the blades dull with use.

He winced at each cut, forcing the dulled blade to cut deeper, to bring more that a few beads of blood to the surface. He switched hands again, testing out the blade with his non dominant hand and cut awkward lines, a parody of the even slices on his opposite arm. Each jab of pain made the pressure in his head dissipate, a calmness rolling over him brought on by the combination of stinging lines and red bubbles of blood.

So deep in his reverie, he didn't hear the sound of knocking, until Ryou called out, "Can you answer that, Bakura?"

He scowled, but did not budge. "I'm busy!" he called back, returning to gazing stupidly at his arms.

"Please Bakura, I'm—" a loud crash interrupted whatever Ryou meant to say. Bakura hastily tugged the gray shirt over his chest and slid each arm through their respective sleeves, before exiting his room. He glanced in the direction of Ryou's room. Assured the other boy was at least alive, he padded over to the door, stepping down in his socks into the genkan, which Ryou hated.

"Thank you!" Ryou's voice floated out to him as Bakura roughly opened the door, glaring balefully at the person on the other side.

"What Pharaoh?" He moved back so Yami could come in.

Yami gaped as he stepped out of his shoes, causing Bakura to whip his head in the direction of Yami. Suddenly remember the proximity of his steadily bleeding arms and the Pharaoh's ogling face; he jerked his arms behind his back. He could feel the slickness of blood through the sleeve as he grasped his arm.

Yami leaned over on his toes, trying to get another look at Bakura's arms. "Are you bleeding?"

Bakura backpedaled, "I scraped my arm on the way out, is all." He closed the door and stomped to his room, ignoring the two eyes trying to burn away the fabric of his shirt sleeves with their gaze.

When Bakura locked himself in his room, he rolled up his sleeves and swiped the razor blade across his arm, because, now, he had a legitimate reason to cut. He grinned eerily at the macabre thought, and went right back to cutting scratches into his arms that, feeling the sensation of blade tugging through skin painlessly as endorphins raced. He tried to ignore the rising anxiety blooming in his gut or the trembling in his fingers, tried to return to the peacefulness of cutting and watching the blood drip down his arms.

While Bakura spent the afternoon of September second cutting his arms after his encounter with Yami, Ryou found himself whisked away on an errand with Yami. After the short walk over, where Yami pointedly answered his queries with vague responses about Solomon requiring his help with a mysterious...something, the two finally reached the Mouto's house. Ryou followed Yami in the back way, around the still busy Kame Game Shop. The lights were off as the two slipped off their shoes, and stepped up into the house: clue one Ryou had something was off. The second clue: the sounds of hushed voices trying to quiet other hushed voices.

A smile pulled at his lips, and he was grinning broadly when the lights flipped on and a bunch of people popped up from their respective hiding spots to shout, "Surprise! Happy Birthday, Ryou!" Ryou opened his mouth, intent on inquiring about the absent person, when a present was handed to him from Joey, whom he thanked and opened the gift. Once more thanking him after peeling back the gift wrap to reveal an ultra rare version of the Change of Heart card. "Bakura had your old one, so I thought you might want it," Joey said, shrugging.

"It's beautiful," Ryou murmured, looking at the gold lettering and shiny foil that made up the half angel half demon caricature. He glanced around the room. It felt like something was missing, when another present, this time from Solomon Mouto, was thrust into his hands.

He lost himself in the process of opening gifts, when the phone rang in the kitchen. He heard Mrs. Mouto greet whomever was on the line, then called for Yugi's grandfather. The party halted, and Ryou glanced at all of his friends, realizing in that moment, what—rather who—was not there.

"Where's Bakura?" he glanced at Yami, who had last spoken to Bakura at their apartment. Yami crossed his eyes, looking lost in thought at the mention of Bakura.

Suddenly his expression shifted into horror. "Damn, I totally forgot to tell him!"

Ryou narrowed his eyes, feelings of sympathy as he imagined ho Bakura must be feeling all alone, boiled in his stomach. "How could you?" he accused, voice still calm.

"It's a long—" Yami began, but was cut off by Solomon Mouto reentering his room with a disquiet look on his face. He called over Ryou.

"There's been an incident with Bakura," he said lowly. Yami, overhearing, invited himself along, mind looping images of the blood stains on his enemy's shirt.

"Sorry everyone," Ryou apologized as Solomon rushed him out the door. "I need to go see Bakura."

He kept his eyes to the floor, ignoring Joey and Tristan's vehement protests, and tossing of uncouth, foul language to describe Bakura.

It wasn't working. Or, rather, the cutting wasn't working enough. As if there were a daily limit and Bakura had exceeded that limit. After Ryou had left, trailing the idiot nosy son of a bitch of a Pharaoh out of the apartment, Bakura returned to sitting cross legged on his bedroom floor (behind a locked door because why risk getting called out twice in one day?), scratching at his arms with a razor blade, hoping to reach numbness along the sharp edge.

Well, it failed. Bakura added another littering of bleeding cuts on top of the lines from less than an hour ago. Frankly it hurt to cut over fresh wounds. As for aesthetics, it didn't work as effectively. After most of the bleeding stopped, Bakura ducked into the bathroom to raid Ryou's supplies and bandaged up the newest cuts—might as well follow doctor's orders.

Actually… The thought gave him pause. He would need his own personal arsenal of gauze, bandages, peroxide, and the like, so as to not rouse Ryou's suspicions when his rarely used supplies ran out at increasing frequency.

Then it was pulling at him, the sensation that he was drowning in this: the mediocrity of subsisting behind closed doors and long sleeves, and he didn't want to live the boring humdrum like, micromanaged by the school system, ugh. It was a torrent of thoughts crashing over him in a maelstrom, and then Yami seeing the blood caked on his sleeves. He seethed with anger that made him grind his teeth.

Yes, he needed first aid supplies, and what better way than taking a short jaunt up to the local convenience store, and raising his morale with a handful of stolen first aid supplies. The thought brought a smile to his lips and lifted his spirits. Arms securely bandaged and likely not to bleed through the layers of gauze, he shrugged on a new long sleeve shirt (black just in case), and off he went.

Over the bridge and through the woods, he thought humorously. His steps were practically light as he walked the concrete path to the convenience store he nicked new razors from when he was ill. Everything washed away in the haze of adrenaline. It was a fuzzy popping sort of sensation in his brain, as Bakura slid through the sensor detection doors. Almost like a drug, he went from depressed an miserable to on top of the world. And nothing could bring him down.

This moment. This pinnacle of everything; this absolution. In this very instance Bakura could breathe. As he walked through the aisles, a weight lifted from him. He was no longer Bakura Yami of the 21rst century; he was Thief King Bakura. He was raiding the Pharaoh's tomb. Hell, he was comfortably numb. Brain thumping in sync with the tempo of his heart, a drum beat, his own personal musical beat, e grabbed the first aid supplies.

Aisle after aisle, pursuing the store now, his hand autonomously went through the motions. Two fingers snaked the edges of each container. At this moment: bandages. Reaching into the box of bandages with the self same fingers that he discreetly deposited a container of antiseptic solution, butterfly stitches, and a whole host and variety of first aid supplies, Bakura, mind spinning much more slowly now, slipped the bandages in his school bag. Satisfied by the stillness of his thoughts, the lack of self hatred unfurling in a constant rhythm, silence at last, Bakura walked past a young sales woman who bowed to him and thanked him for his service.

He felt his lips tug upwards in a smirk, then…

"Excuse me, sir." A hand clamped on his shoulder and fear slicked the back of his throat.

Bakura froze. He registered the store employee, but his words reached Bakura's ears dimly, as if through a fog. The same fog settled over his shoulders and trickled down his back. He couldn't breathe right, and he swallowed airless gulps of saliva.

"Sir?" The employee pressed. The hand on his shoulder bit down. He allowed the employee—the assistant manager he introduced himself—to steer him towards the back of the store. He beckoned another employee on his way back. Led through the same aisles Bakura had perused minutes ago with the clarity and acuity of Thief King Bakura, now Bakura shuffled is feet in between two employees, the assistant manager and an older female worker. His thoughts muffled under a layer of numb haze.

Dread pooled in his stomach.

A/N:

I don't think a Japanese school would start on a Friday, but it worked better for my plot. That, and in 1998 Ryou's birthday fell on a Friday.

In Japanese schools when the term changes, students are given new seat assignments. Also, September 1 is the start of the "winter" so to speak, so students are required to wear their winter uniform, regardless of weather—which is especially hellish because Japanese schools don't have air conditioning. This might be more lax now, and I think, if the weather was truly awful and miserable, there might be leniency?