A/N: This a pure coincidence. It does help the plot makes more sense (but the more sense it makes, the more mistakes I see in prior chapters. Someday, I'll fix the glaring plotholes).
Ch 24: Freak Indian Summer
Weeks passed, school, work, and home all cycling, propelling Bakura into a plebian routine. More and more frequently, Yami helped out with the inventory, to which Bakura became almost accustomed to his help. Luckily, he mostly stayed silent, just a few glances every so often that more than reminded Bakura his secret was on limited time. One Friday in early October, Bakura let himself into the empty apartment. Checking the clock in the kitchen, Bakura noted Ryou had another half hour yet before he returned from therapy. On his way to his bedroom, he shrugged off his baggy sweater.
He sighed in relief at the shift in temperature. Rather than cooling off in preparation for winter, the weather made mockery of Bakura's standard long sleeved wardrobe, with summer-like temperatures until the sun set. He flung the sweater on the floor with other random discarded clothing articles, and lay upon his bed. As sunlight flickered through the window, Bakura held his co-dominant arm above his head, watching, usually unnoticeable to the human eye, silver lines shimmer.
His lips curled into a smile as he inspected the various scars and some new cuts along his forearm, from thin white scars, to the thick robe of scar tissue making up the hypertrophic scar on his upper arm. He ran a finger over the scar, wincing as leftover remnants of pain tingled, reminding him how deep that cut had been. The scar itself was wide, probably the width of a pen cap, and maybe a couple centimeters long. It was bright purple, unlike the rest of the scars that tended to fade from red, to white.
He tapped the skin near a new cut, relaxing when the skin was not hot to the touch. He tried to bandage his fresh cuts afterwards, though he habitually fell asleep or was interrupted immediately after cutting—especially since he bought his own assortment of first aid supplies and did not have to delve into the public, visible, stock.
He reached into his pocket for his card, taking in the scratched up surface of the card protector after months of wear and tear. His mind clicked, remembering what else he had bought when he bought the medical bandages. He tossed on a fresh tee shirt as he dug through his dresser drawers where he placed the disposable razor.
He settled back on the bed, using his hands to wrench the metal blades from the sheaths of plastic. He twisted at the plastic covering, already accustomed to this particular obnoxiousness. He was prying a blade from the top portion of the razor, when he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the door knob to his room turning. He slipped, dropping the razor to the floor, foot automatically kicking it underneath his comforter, even as he dimly recognized he was bleeding.
"Fucker," he cursed, holding up his thumb as Ryou walked, laden with shopping bags.
"I stopped at the grocers on the way—" he began. When he saw the blood dripping down Bakura's thumb, down his palm, finally soaking into the thin fabric of his shirt, Ryou dropped the bags, rushing to Bakura's side. "What happened?" he asked.
"I caught it on something," Bakura said, the lie spilling from his mouth before he could fabricate a better story. Luckily Ryou, preoccupied with tending to the injury, did not notice the flimsy excuse.
"It's deep, but not too serious," he said, inspecting the cut. He grabbed a shirt from Bakura's floor, instructing him to put pressure on the wound and to hold his thumb above his heart. "I'm gonna grab some bandages."
"I got some in the desk drawer," Bakura offered. The implication of what he just revealed cracked open over his head, dripping around him like mental egg white and yolk, as he noticed Ryou's scrunched up nose.
He grabbed gauze, Band-Aids, and alcohol swabs from the desk drawer, then returned to sanitize Bakura's finger. As he wiped of the remaining dried blood with a medicated sheet, he asked, "What's with the mini pharmacy?"
Bakura felt heat rise in his cheeks, even as he tried to stamp down the reaction. He tossed his head back. "Why not," he said in reply. Ryou continued to gaze at him inquisitively as he slapped a Band-Aid over the cut, and wrapping a small amount of gauze over the area.
Bakura became familiar with Ryou's thoughtful expression at odd times, when he helped prepare dinner, during the school day when the teacher was lecturing, one morning as the weather report predicted another hot day—another unseasonably warm day where Bakura sheathed his arms in long sleeves.
It seemed even their homeroom teacher had made it his mission to see Bakura in the short sleeve uniform shirt. Their normally strict homeroom teacher had relaxed the winter uniform policy, rather choosing not to mention a student in incorrect uniform unless his own boss: the principal, or high administration chose to visit. That particular conversation with Kobayashi had been an awkward turn-about on the lectures Bakura had had to endure in the summer.
"With the unexpected heat wave and our unfortunate electric situation, it would not be remiss to, ah forgo, your jacket if need be," sadly, in Bakura's opinion, this statement had been directed to the class as a whole, and not himself. He was a little uncomfortable because the heat was a moist heat, compared to Egypt's dry heat.
The heat waves that plagued Domino during the days curled up under the skin, making Bakura prickly about the constant tingles that jolted him amidst other thoughts, or the beautiful rarity of thought—rare as that state was lately.
…
"Bakura," Yami started as he set a new box of cards to be sorted on the table between him and Bakura. He gave Bakura a level gaze. "Why are you wearing long sleeves?"
Bakura narrowed his eyes, but made no indication to defend himself, long since accustomed to Yami's questioning, since he had been making inquiries since Ryou's birthday. The current heat wave acted as a buffer to insulate Yami's most recent questioning (an assumption on Bakura's part that was proven correct when Yami continued his monologue. "It's sweltering outside."
Bakura raised a brow. "I'm cold," he said, nonchalant as he dug into the box. He handed the notepad to Yami, refusing to flinch or meet Yami's gaze, which had wandered to his telling long sleeved collar shirt.
"That's bullshit, and you know it," Yami said. Neither had raised their voices as they followed the same thread of logic and questioning, both resigned to never getting a resolution. "It's near 30 degrees. I find it too warm."
Bakura separated the packs into organized piles. "Five Blue-Eye's," he said and Yami jotted it down on the inventory sheet. "Well, I'm cold."
Yami sighed; Bakura offered him the next two pack totals, before Yami had a moment to lift his gaze from the notepad. Bakura suppressed the urge to curl up and hide as Yami's gaze softened with concern. "No, you aren't Bakura."
Luckily, for Bakura, that was all the Pharaoh was going to contribute to the inquisition today, so the two resumed working in silence, only speaking to record the inventory.
…
The classroom, had been turned into an art room proper with the inclusion of still lives, but the room shifted back to more of their bland homeroom as students had finished their still lives, worked on 'free work' projects that could count towards extra credit in the interim of Minami's announcing of their next project, the up until now, secretive project. As Minami introduced the conceptual self portrait, Bakura simply suppressed a yawn.
Seemed simple enough. Even Tristan wasn't pulling his 'if Miho likes art, so do I' lovesick routine for this as Miho loudly squealed her enthusiasm at such an expressive idea just in time for Culture Day. Even Tristan laughed at Joey's high pitch squeal imitation of young teacher and her protégée in Miho Nosaka.
Bakura almost smirked at the sudden devastation on Miho's face, which had Tristan pandering backwards in his to appeach his crush, "interesting when you explain art like that, Miho!"
Mirror, portrait. Paint. He could draw himself, sure. What idiot couldn't?
…
In the afternoon on one of those wickedly hot days a few weeks into October, Bakura sweated as he worked on the inventory. Alone in the shop (Solomon was outside promoting the newest twist in the Duel Monster's game), Bakura considered rolling up his sleeves. He decided against it, weighing the potential risk of discovery over any short term benefits, settling with wiping his dripping forehead.
He grabbed a large box in the far corner, intent to start on next week's merchandise. The box slipped from his sweat slicked fingers, falling with a thud to the floor, crushing his foot. He cried out at the foreign pain, at the sudden presence of weight, at the splinters of agony coursing from the top off his foot to each individual toe, at the bruise surely forming as blood welled to the top layers of skin.
He kicked the heavy weight off his foot, falling to the floor, little flickers of pain in his legs reminded him, that, yes, his foot fucking hurt. He sucked in a breath, trying to assimilate the pain, drawing it in to overwhelm any discontentment. He grimaced, scratching at his arm, pushing his sleeve up as he desperately tried to reopen the older cuts, tried to replace pain for endorphin.
Suddenly his arms were ripped from his grasp. He blinked as the calm rush of endorphins settled on him. He inhaled, then breathed out, before lurching backwards at the predicament he was in.
Yami kneeled in front of him, holding both of Bakura's arms in his hands. He looked into Bakura's eyes, trying to find the source of disturbance. Time slowed. Bakura's heart pounded in his chest; he breathed in through his nose against waves of nausea.
"What happened?" Yami asked, hands fisted around Bakura's wrist, still ignorant of the cuts beneath his fingers.
"I'm fine," Bakura choked out. Eyes wide, he tried to pull his hands free from Yami's grasp. "Let me go."
Yami's eyebrows shot into his crazy cacophony of colors and dyes he referred to as hair. He leaned forward, placing more pressure on Bakura's wrist. "I heard you scream."
Bakura squirmed as a Yami's fingers ripped into new cuts. Even as he felt blood bead up, making Yami's grasp slick against his arms. "Just, let, go," he pleaded, trying unsuccessfully to escape Yami's grasp, enunciating each word as he tugged against Yami. His eyes burned and spider webs filled intricate weaves in his chest. He struggled to breathe, gasping and wheezing.
"Tell me what happened!" Yami insisted, then, eyes widening further, he turned Bakura's wrists, in his hands, over.
…
Shattered glass. What self? The virulent shade of earth as al three base colors are swirled too long. What idiot was he thinking he portray himself?
A/N: I switched Yami from immediately finding out all at once to sort of figurimg something was wrong, but not 100 percent certain. This is 1998 Japan. I also am trying to figure out (a la writing) my (usually young) coworkers' needs to know the absolute truth about my scars. The young ones, I sort of understand, so props for continuing to ask when this angst clown gives you pure sarcasm.
