A/N:
If this chapter seems choppy, it probably is. I had to try to fit in a lot of information. I do apologize. We are nearing the ending, and frankly, every time it gets harder to write this story. Could I be, gasp, getting too old? Oh dear. Plus the topic is personally in nature, and can be triggering for me, and likely the readers.
Rena: How long, out of curiosity, have you been following this story? I just wonder if anyone has been around since 2006 and the original incarnation as myself as a 17 year old. The writing quality was ...deplorable. Haha. Thanks for reviewing!
Chapter 28: Confrontations
...
His arms ached slightly less since he actively tried to resist cutting himself, especially after Yami's silent threat in the stall of Kaiba Corp's toilets. Not to say he had stopped entirely (or lasted the entirely of the first night), but the greatly reduced sessions failed to procure enough blood or to satisfy the endless desire for controlled pain. Still, two days without his usual coping mechanism was more than enough to make him near lose his shit.
Bakura found himself almost spastically punching his arms where the cuts from before Kaiba Corp lay, leaving bruises in addition to healing cuts. The only good from his rushed departure from Kaiba's sight was the group must have forgotten the specifics of his doctors record. No complaints from his end. Bakura mused as we walked home from another work day with Solomon, with Yami noticeably withdrawn. Again, no real complaints on Bakura's end.
...
Over cups of steaming oolong tea, Bakura and Ryou sat on the couch and armchair respectively pretending to watch a game show. "We need a DVD player," Ryou commented as the game show took an unexpected turn, and Bakura and Ryou witnessed something they both could have lived without viewing.
"Have your Dad buy you one, Bakura said, still in shock from the scene displayed for the nation to view on live television.
Ryou flopped his legs over the chair languidly. He took a sip of tea. "I would feel too guilty," he said. "But it's certainly tempting." Ryou enunciated the last two words sharply as the insanity was repeated on catch up from commercial break.
Bakura snorted. As if anyone wanted a repeat performance.
Ryou glanced at him. "How is working at the shop going?"
Bakura lowered his tea mug to the coffee table. "Fine," he said neutrally. The last few weeks working under Solomon Mouto was going fine. He worked away from the sniveling children that served as the majority of Turtle Game Shaop's clientele, in the back, keeping inventory. Not every day, but most days, he usually ended up sitting across Yami as they worked silently, finishing up the majority of the paperwork before Bakura was released.
"He paid me," Bakura said, still slightly shocked by Somolon's actions earlier that day. He dug in his pocket to produce the small wad of yen notes Solomon had given both him and Yami.
"Thank you boys, for both your hard work," Solomon had said, splitting 50,000 yen between the two. Yami's eyes had widened and Bakura had stilled, dumbfounded.
"You don't need to pay us," Yami protested, as Bakura silently accepted his wad of bills. He had not been expecting any payment or reimbursement for his punishment.
Solomon had merely laughed heartily. "Don't you worry; you two are cheaper than inventory checks. I appreciate your dedication."
Bakura recounted the story to Ryou, who asked if he thanked Solomon. Bakura sort of half shrugged, allowing Ryou's politeness assume the proper response. Bakura fluffed over his own surprise, choosing to fan the money at Ryou.
"Think we could buy a DVD player with this?" he asked over the bill notes.
Ryou shook his head. "Try three times that, at best." He leaned over to pick something from the floor. Bakura followed Ryou's motions, freezing when he realized it was his card flat on the living room floor.
Bakura stuffed the money back into his pocket, and he was kneeling on the floor to pluck the card up before Ryou made an attempt to grab it.
Ryou blinked rapidly, as he tried to process what just happened. "Why do you carry that around," he asked.
Bakura shoved the card into the pocket without the crumpled yen notes, and sulked. Ryou put a thumb to his lips. The mood had just spun a 180, flipping from conversational to defensive, and he could not fathom why, but he knew it had something to do with that card.
...
November third brought the school festival, along with a gale of rain mixed with ice. A definite reminder of the impending winter encroaching. Bakura scowled at his particular piece if artwork. In the end, he had gone with a self portrait in colored pencils, and he hated it. It hung mockingly in a row with other students' works. As the parents and other students admired the other pieces of art, Bakura wrenched his sneering face, a sick reminder of his own twisted self, from the wall, and stuffed it in his bag, intent to throw it in the trash.
Just like he was.
...
After sneaking away from the overly cheerful ambiance of the festivities, Bakura shivered against the cold that finally settled in Domino. He neglected to bring his coat, so he felt the cold clearly through the thin shirt he wore. He barely noticed the icy nips against his skin as his body practically demanded physical pain. He lashed out, propelling a fist into the jagged brick exterior of the school building. He swallowed down a yelp as pain exploded across his knuckles. That fucking hurt, burned across his nerve endings. He shook his hand, not wholly satisfied; he craved the thin instances of pain beading against his arms like the rungs in a ladder.
Nevertheless, the pain blooming in his hand calmed him enough. He walked across the back parking lot, feet carrying him to his favored spot, physical motions working faster than the niggling reminder as to why he should not head out that way. Less than a quarter hour later, Bakura slumped over on a bench, one hand curling to fist the protector, a hand placed on his shoulder told volumes of temporarily forgotten memory.
Bakura wrenched his shoulder from the gently placed hand, the hand that belonged to that idiot Pharaoh with sad, pleading, begging eyes. "What?!" he snapped, anger boiling at being denied physical pain for the second time in less than an hour.
"Are you alright?" Yami glanced at Bakura and his overstuffed school bag, then narrowed on the crumpled black and clear plastic peaking out of Bakura's fist. "You were going to…" The accusation trailed off somewhere to die in Yami's apprehension muddled thoughts.
Bakura snarled. He dumped a blade surreptitiously in his palm before the Pharaoh had an opportunity to tear the protector out of his hand. Again. "To do what, Pharaoh?" he mocked. "To cut?" As silent affirmation to his own question, Bakura rolled up the sleeve of his left arm, is most heavily abused arm. He caught Yami's horrified gaze. "Yes, yes I will," he answered aloud.
...
Distraught from another ugly confrontation with Bakura, Yami headed for the game shop. Maybe, just maybe it was time to get intervention from an adult. At the same time, he did not want to shatter the tenuous trust Bakura still seemed to find in him. He sighed as he opened the door to the front , game shop, entrance, only to find Solomon full attention on him. He held a small stack of papers. As Yami waled up to him, he saw the heading on the papers. They weren't just papers, but print offs of his computer search history. And Solomon was looking at him with an expression befit of an older gentleman, whom understood the severity of the situation, but may not have enough personal experience.
"It's not what you think, Grandpa, " Yami said, not nervous—because he had nothing to be nervous about; this was a grandfather figure who cared very much for him and only wanted to make sure he was okay, and for the most part, Yami was.
"I can show you my wrists," Yami said, speaking slightly quickly, not giving Solomon a minute to misconstrue the situation.
"May I ask who this about, Yami? This is a serious thing," Solomon said, when Yami paused to take a breath.
"Honestly, I'd like to consider the person a friend, but I don't know." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, I can't tell you."
"They trust me." Yami emphasized.
Solomon did not want to point fingers needlessly at his grandsons' large friend group. At first he wondered if Ryou had developed into self mutilation after his stint with an eating disorder the year before. The boy had been looking a bit pallid recently.
But he trusted both his grandsons, so he told Yami, "I hope when your friend comes to you for help, you are able to come to me as well. You shouldn't bear the pressure of this on your own."
Yami sniffed, to which Solomon came around the customer service desk, and engulfed Yami in a hug, "We'll figure this out Yami, in time," he said to the silently sobbing former Pharaoh.
...
Career counseling came up in the next week, sooner than Bakura would have liked. He sat outside the teacher's lounge feeling inadequately prepared. How was he supposed to know what he wanted to do with his life? Some days, just existing was more effort than not. Besides, he had been a thief in ancient Egypt; a thief was what he was and all he knew. Well, evidently the technology of today proved he was unable to keep up with his former occupation, but... Bakura let out a breath as the door slid open and his name was called.
Bakura entered the room, wondering for a moment why such an 'important decision that held bearing on the rest of his future' was held in the communal teacher's lounge. A smirk graced his lips, and Kobayashi, taking the bait, said shortly, "I hope your expression is an indication you have come to a decision about your future prospects."
The smirk slipped away, and the real meeting started.
...
"Bakura!" Bakura was currently running away. Away from Marik, who was shouting down the school corridor, and Kobayashi. The meeting went about as unproductively and awful as Bakura figured, but then—then Koybayashi peered at Bakura above his glasses to ask in the warmest tone Bakura had ever heard from the stern homeroom teacher, 'if he was alright'. Followed by an impromptu patronizing lecture that teachers were students too once, and he was concerned due to Bakura's reluctance to bare his arms over the course of the summer.
Of course Kobayashi thought it was abuse or domestic problems, but that did nothing to stop the bile creeping up his throat or the fluttering in his chest. So he did the only thing he could think of, and ran.
Only to be followed by Marik, who quickly caught up to him just outside the toilets.
"Bakura," Marik said between gasps, "stop, please."
Well, he had no intention of that. The only thing he wanted to was lock himself in a stall and cut himself bloody raw. Fuck Yami's anger from Kaibab's meeting or his weakly given assurance that he didn't need to cut. He did, and dammit, he needed it right now.
But a tan hand pressed sharply into his uniform, keeping him rooted just outside his redeemer.
Bakura said nothing, however Marik filled the silence. "Look, Bakura, I know what you're doing."
And his heart skipped a beat. He should have told Marik to fuck off, or denied everything, but after the meeting with Kobayashi, he just didn't have it in him to fend off another verbal assault, and Marik continued. "I could tell in the toilet a while back. You know my father carved the Pharaoah's memories into my back. I-I know the sound of skin being sliced."
Marik looked in Bakura's eyes. "I just couldn't believe it."
Bakura wrenched his shoulder from Marik's grasp, "Yeah, well what do you know? Obviously I don't want to talk about it!"
He stormed back to the classroom, leaving Marik to do nothing, except attend his own career counseling.
...
Bakura made it until lunchtime after Marik's half-baked confrontation, before he excused himself to the toilets to cut. As he leaned against the stall wall, watching blood pool in a single line, he reassured himself that Ryou, at least, still kept down his lunch and dinner. The knot in his chest loosened. He wiped away the drying blood, flushed the blood stained toilet paper away, and exited.
Joey looked up as Bakura returned to the classroom, where they had taken to eating lunch since the temperatures dropped. "Where'd you go?" he accused.
"The toilet," Bakura said, letting sarcasm bleed into his tone. "Problem with that?" He slid into his seat, catching the narrowed eyes of Yami beside him.
"Did you go to…" Yami trailed off. He fumbled with his bento lid, not meeting Bakura's eyes.
Bakura scowled at Yami's correct assumption. He snarled under his breath, "To what, Pharaoh? Wank?" He smirked as Yami dug into his bento, blushing. "If it pleases you, no I did not."
He twisted his head in the other direction, scanning the room for Ryou, who sat with Yugi. He clenched the hand of his injured arm into a fist, forcing the muscle to flex and sending tingles of pain down the nerve endings. Yami followed his gaze, noticing how little Ryou was eating.
"Is he seeing his therapist?" Yami asked around a mouthful of rice. Bakura wanted to punch Yami square in the face for having enough audacity to speak so ignorantly.
"Yes," Bakura replied, answering the spoken concern and ignoring the silent: is he okay?
...
A/N:
A DVD player cost about $700 in the USA in 1998. $500 is, in my lazy conversion, approximately 500 yen, so it would be $250 for two months of a couple hours of work for untaxed, teenagers. You know, I should probably looked up the minimum wage in 1998, but I didn't, and we all want this chapter out, yes?
November 3rd in Japan in Culture Day at most Japanese high schoolsd. Fujn fact: this particular one fell on a Tuesday.
Yami offers to show his wrists, because in 1998 Japan, self harm was called 'wrist-cut syndrome', from the translation of my manga Confidential Confessions volume 1. I'm not sure if that's factually correct to real life, but every manga I've read, the self harming character cuts their wrists. Cut and Life are two other mangas if you're interested.
