Pairing: Bakura x Ryou
Genre: AU, dark
Rating: PG-13
Words: 615
Warnings: incest, references to self-injury
Summary: Summer is a time to resume old habits.
Memory Album
Installment Three: Summer
The wind trickles in through the open window, and it is 2:37 am.
He sits upon the bed, legs crossed and hands sprawled over his bare thighs. It is summer, sultry and dangerous, and he closes his eyes in order to imagine. The air is thick and heady upon his lips, coaxing and tempting until he parts his mouth to let it flow in; to curl along his tongue and spiral into his lungs. There it coils like a poisonous snake, writhing through bronchial tubes and clogging the organs just a bit more.
Bitten nails drag across the surface of his comforter. He has owned it since he was twelve and now the threads are wearing away, fading like everything else does over time. He can still see the safari scene that it depicts, so childish that it seems from another life—a different life, perhaps one where he didn't feel so jaded.
When he opens his eyes, he can see Bakura standing in the doorway.
The way he slouches against the doorframe, head cocked to one side and shoulders slumped, reminds him of an advertisement he saw earlier in a magazine. There was a handsome young man, dressed in naught but blue jeans, resting against a doorway in a nonchalant manner so practiced, it would nearly fool were it not so unnatural a pose. But the way Bakura stands there, wearing only black sweats and a knowing smile on his face, seems so painfully real.
"What are you doing there?" he asks absently while rubbing at an itchy spot on his forearm.
Bakura quirks an eyebrow, glancing at the razor blade he's placed on the bed only a few inches from his feet. "I was actually going to ask you the same question."
He picks up the blade, turning it from side to side and watching as it reflects the dull light of the moon. "That's interesting. How about you answer mine first and then I'll answer yours."
His brother shrugs lightly, looking bored. "Couldn't sleep."
He nods, not questioning further. He knows that is not the reason why Bakura wound up at the entrance to his room in the middle of the night, but he doesn't particularly care much. "Same here."
There is a soft hum of acknowledgement and he watches from his peripheral vision as Bakura walks over. The bed shifts with his added weight, and soon there is warm breath against the side of his neck.
"I thought you gave this up." Without permission, Bakura plucks the blade from between his fingers, examining it closely. He would shrug but his brother's chin is upon his shoulder, so he makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat instead. Bakura remains quiet as he tilts his head up and stares at the ceiling, making himself comfortable against the body behind him.
"It's summer," he says.
"Hmm?"
"It's summer," he repeats, as if it explains all; and perhaps, in some small way, it does.
There is a pause before Bakura mumbles a bit, leaning over to drop the blade on the nightstand. "I see."
He isn't sure how it started. Perhaps it began with Bakura's lips on his throat or maybe with his hand on Bakura's thigh. All that he is certain of is the sheer fluidity of everything. Their movements are smooth, their breathing even, and somehow he finds himself lying atop his brother with their bare chests pressed together.
"I thought you gave this up," he remarks absently, quoting his brother as he traces his fingertips along Bakura's ribs.
His bother smiles tightly, tangling strong fingers into his hair. "It's summer," and he doesn't protest as their mouths press together.