FicWad

Warnings/Notes: Manga-based, AE-spoiler (Also, shounen-ai, implied het, necrophilia; but not more than in any other Yami no Bakura/Ryou Bakura story).
I'm no native speaker, so I apologize in forward for possible weird mistakes.

I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh! or any of its characters.

xxx



Saturday afternoon, Bakura went to the hobby-shop. He'd never thought much of prefabricated models, that were taking out so much of the fun and leaving the creator with nothing but a few already established pieces, which he could only fit together in a limited amount of different manners. Not that he wasn't capable of creating an interesting scenario even out of those, if he had to. He simply preferred to build everything himself. Much to the disappointment of Sugoroku Motou, who was selling all game pieces, rule books and rare extension available.

But to get the thin wooden boards, a tube of fresh glue - the old one was sticking to his fingers more than anything else - and some nails and a good knife, and the pasteboard, not to mention all the colours, he had no choice but to come here. The shop was only four streets from his apartment, one of the reasons why he liked it, and while frequently out of stock of a precise tool, generally had a more diversified stock than the a bit larger, but less friendly and alluringly chaotic one where he used to purchase everything before he came to Domino.

He'd passed the shop frequently before, but he'd only been inside a few times, recently, and when he entered, the single man who was standing behind the till and had looked up at the ring of the small bell attached above the door didn't seem to recognise him, and gave him a brief and not all that glade stare, maybe thinking that that potential customer would force him to work, and before disappearing between the boxes, Bakura could see his eyes widening at his quiet, polite greeting.

He liked the scent that was laying over the small shop, one he'd always liked, and which called back pleasant childhood memories, when he'd first learned to make little things, and had then attempted to teach his sister, as well as much later ones, connected with some of his best hours of aloneness. It wasn't what most people would call pleasant: there was little fresh air, and, now, at summer begin, the place was over-heated and sticky, and the smells were those of wood and metal, with a slightly nauseating one of chemicals and paintings and glue.

Without hurrying, Bakura passed the electric tools, briefly stopped to wonder whether he could use a new tool, but then decided against it, and went on. He stopped in front of the wooden boards, and checked the prize of the ones he'd need. After a brief hesitation, he took a small paper with a list of items on it out of his pocket, and gave a satisfied nod, before reading it over a second time and stuffing it back into his jeans' pocket.

He didn't take the boards right away; and didn't go for any of the other items that had been on the list he'd prepared in forward, until it was to quickly check if it was available at all. Instead, he went to the corner farthest away from the entrance door, right to the till. There, there was a large box which was fixed to the wall, and, beneath it, a cardboard box with a couple of small extra items, mostly in total disorder. He dared a shy, a little nervous smile as the seller cast him a, so he felt, suspicious glance.

"You promise you never stole anything here?" he mumbled, barely moving his lips.

The man kept looking at him for another moment, before focusing his attention back on his magazine, but he was looking back up at him from behind it every two minutes. Bakura tried to ignore him as he shuffled through the box. From time to time, he took an object into his hand, examined it more closely, and put it back inside, more carefully than logical, considering the way it would soon get buried beneath the other garbage. Each time, he mentally imagined ways to put the object - a small piece of cloth this time, and he put it back down after deciding to buy a roll of fabric, smiling because he'd never used that before - to use, and dismissed it. Those he actually wanted to put aside but couldn't quite decide himself to yet, mostly when he knew he wouldn't manage what he was imaging, he tossed back as well, but in a corner of the box, so he could, cheating himself, pick it up again a few minutes later, almost truly by hazard.

Over that, he soon forgot about the man who was still watching him; he'd forgotten he was there, as he'd forgotten almost everything but the model he had in mind, and the odd treasure that was supposed to make it realisable. Therefore, he jumped (literally, if only half an inch) when a voice perked in.

"Are you looking for something in particular?"

"Oh... I..." He did, of course stutter: he was never good in communicating with people, but being surprised made it worse. He fought to regain a countenance, and managed when he saw that the seller didn't look as angry or suspicious as he'd expected him to. "I'm looking for stuff to build a model. Of a city."

The man gave him a slightly intrigued look; he couldn't be as old as Bakura had assumed at first glance because of the already grey hair, only in his early fifties at the most; he had dark, surprisingly sharp eyes. As he stood up tentatively, as if not certain if it was worth it, Bakura noticed he was taller than the man.

"I don't think you'll find what you're looking for in there."

He motioned the cardboard with his head. Bakura felt himself blush.

"I know; I've already figured out what I need." His hand automatically went to his pocket, where he was keeping the list. "I'm just looking for something additional or more useful I didn't think of... Or something special..."

He stretched out the last word without thinking, but the seller seemed to take it as a compliment for the wide range of odd stuff that could be found there, because he looked a little friendlier. Maybe he did remember the white-haired boy coming a few times before, now. Bakura wasn't exactly easy to miss.

"Did you find anything then?"

Bakura looked at his hand, where he was holding a very long and entangled metal thread, let it drop into the cardboard and then nodded; he didn't notice the now interested tone of voice, and assumed it was a hint that he might want to leave the shop.

A few instants later, the table was practically covered completely with thin boards, tubes of glue and colour, fabric, cotton, rope, and other more or less useful things

He left the shop, dragging the heavy packet with him with difficulty. The day before had been the last school day, and Domino seemed to already be void of half of its normal population. While those parts of the town weren't usually crowded with people, they were still unusually empty for a Saturday.

While he was, at the begin, trilled enough by the feeling of having accomplished something, the second half of the way seemed to be unbearably long, and it was hard to stop himself from resting, and laying the package down for a minute every few steps. It wasn't a particularly hot summer day, but it was near midday, and he was bathed in sweet when he finally arrived. The three floors by foot had not seemed so strenuous since a very long time.

Arrived in front of the door to his apartment, he allowed himself a moment of rest, and leaned his forehead against the relaxingly cold frame of the door; then, after pushing himself back up, he struggled to complete the difficult task of taking out his keys without dropping the packet, and failed.

With a sigh, he took out the keys easily now, unlocked and pushed the door open; he threw the keys on a small desk in the anteroom (they landed on the border, balanced dangerously and fell down) before he turned round.

The content of the packed had not been sprawled over the floor; it hadn't even fallen down. Instead, it was, so it seemed, unsurely floating in the air, hold only by a transparent silhouette. The spirit, ethereal and invisible to any other eye, was an exact copy of himself, the difference only artificially made visible by the wilder, spiky hair.

"Thanks," Bakura murmured, and stepped aside to let the spirit enter in front of him.

The ghost walked past him and directly to the living room without a word, and carefully deposited the packet in front of the low table Bakura had always used for games, and which was now entirely covered by large white sheet of paper on which they'd drawn and written a plan.

"Did you get everything you wanted?" he asked, as Bakura joined him.

The boy smiled faintly and nodded, as he kneed down beside the packed and began unpacking, carefully depositing everything on the table.

"Yes. I only hope there isn't anything I forgot..."

The spirit glanced over the table; Bakura looked up when he did not respond: his face was frozen in an unusually painful expression, the pale lips pressed together, and he lacked the air of danger that usually surrounded him.

"You still have time to buy anything you forgot," he said, voice blank.

Bakura stopped unpacking, stood up and, stepping over the packed, walked closer to the former thief.

"Are you sure you still agree to this...?"

The spirit gave him a strange look.

"I promised, didn't I?"

"Yes... But if you-"

The spirit ran a transparent hand trough his host's hair, then gave him a light push.

"Go on." He hesitated for a moment, then nodded and sat down back in front of the desk. "I owe you. You got the ring back."

Bakura gave a faint smile the spirit couldn't see.

"It's mine..." he said softly. "I'd never give it away."

After battle city, Yugi had hidden the ring from him, though Bakura suspected it had not been his initiative. But he'd done nothing more to prevent him from taking it back. Yugi understood.

"And you would have come back, eventually."

He could feel a hand gently trace down his back, and then the spirit sat down just beside him.

"Yes..." he murmured.

Bakura smiled, and began to sort out everything on the table, putting back everything he'd not need right away, the glue for instances, and decided to start by cutting some of the wooden boards into the right shape. The spirit watched him stand up and go to the commode on the other side of the room.

He came back and walked around the table to sit down beside him again, and quietly began to take measurement of the boards, and mark each of them, his lips moving without producing a sound as he calculated silently, and his eyes narrowed with extreme concentration. The sprit watched him intensely and none of them said a word until Bakura had finally finished.

"But it's only fair," he then added, as if they had never interrupted the conversation. "You have searched through my mind for so long, and I still know nothing about you."

The soft, almost pleading tone in which the words were said took away everything demanding they might hold. The spirit gave no answer, only looked at the table in front of them.

"You'll teach me?" he asked, and took one of the paintbrushes, miming painting.

Bakura nodded with a small smile.

"Tomorrow," he said. "We have time."

The spirit looked relieved for a moment, then he nodded as well, and let Bakura give him a light, almost chaste kiss on the corner of his lips, apologizing.

"I'll get us something to eat," the boy offered.

The spirit watched him during his whole way through the room; but when Bakura came back from the kitchen, he was gone.



Sunday morning, right after Bakura had had breakfast, the spirit appeared next to him, and they started working, if it could be called that.

Bakura started right away; he cleared the desk of the plan and the laptop that was still standing on its edge, and waited.

First, they cut the boards into appropriately large pieces, just as Bakura had lined out on them the day before. The thief was good at that; he handled the knife with an ease that matched Bakura's application, and didn't need any further explanations. They worked in silence, the only sound being the one of the cutting of the knife, and shuffling in the remaining wood.

Bakura paced around in an attempt to find a comfortable position, something he'd not managed in the many years since which he was doing handicrafts like this, and finally ended up back to back with the spirit, while one of his elbows could rest on the table. It was an agreeable way to sit; this way, he could feel the spirit's movements, was able to tell, without looking or listening, when he was lifting something up, when he was cutting fast, or on the contrary carefully outlining a special form Bakura had been drawing.

Two hours flew by like this; the day had reached that point where the sun was beginning to shine intrudingly into the living room, which it would not leave until late in the evening: Bakura shifted, because it was choosing to shine right into his eyes.

The spirit stopped in his work, turned a little, and raised a questioning eyebrow when his host moved.

"It's nothing," the latter reassured him. "I just need to move a little."

He stretched out his arms, but didn't bother standing up, only crawled a bit to the left.

"Give me a bit space. I've got the sun in my eyes."

The spirit complied; Bakura gave the remaining material a long glance. And he'd thought they would have finished soon...!

"We'll never finish it," the spirit murmured.

His host whirled around.

"Yes we will," he said confidently, even though he'd been so close to think the same. It was almost scaring. Never, the spirit had seemed /discouraged/, and Bakura was feeling vaguely guilty for it.

"Yugi..." he hesitated; it seemed to pain him to speak out. "- And the pharaoh. Will they go through with it?"

Bakura looked away.

"Yes. And," he looked up hopefully. "- So will we."

Because in a way, it was their own search for memories, one that was so much less mystic, less important when one considered how much depended on the puzzle spirit, and attained through simple, human deeds. There was no magic involved, there was no secret story to be revealed - and yet again, there was. And maybe, the ring spirit would find peace through it as well.

Just like Yugi's Dark needed to go through this journey that might destroy him, and Yugi would support and protect him this time, he would help the ancient thief to recreate those memories; and maybe, free him, both of them, from their destructive effect.


/I/n the afternoon, they started to paint, and Bakura decided after a short time it would probably be the best part. The former thief had proved to be quite skilful in the use of a knife, which wasn't a surprise, but the same couldn't be said for a paintbrush.

He was learning fast, Bakura had to admit, and attempting to copy the almost devoted way he'd colour the model-pieces. Doubting the spirit would take too much criticising well, he concentrated on his own work, and was sitting, once again, for an hour, his head slight tilled to the side, brushing over a single piece again and again, until it was to his liking. The spirit observed him for a while through narrowed eyes and, occasionally, in an inappropriately insisting way that made him promise himself they would not let themselves be distracted. Only then, he seriously tried to follow his example and, Bakura thought, the former thief with a paintbrush in his hand was a sight that was cuter than it should be.

He couldn't help laughing, though, when he observed how, over the time, the thief's fingers were covered in colours, red and yellow and green and violet, and this even though Bakura was positive they hadn't even opened that one.

"What's so funny?" the spirit snapped, but, because of the green spots plastered over his face, he didn't look very frightening.

Noticing this, he raised the hand in which he was holding the paintbrush; Bakura realised what he was about to a second before it happened. He tried to back away, but it was too late. The brush caressed over his check in a quick, fluid motion and left a large red mark.

"I think we should try this with something edible," the spirit remarked with a smirk.

Bakura, who'd thought that he should have got used to remarks like this since the time the spirit first appeared in the strange, almost physical form, that faded whenever he went too far away from his host, blushed furiously.



Monday, they went to the museum.

It was closed that day; Bakura nodded at the guard, and went straightforward to the room they'd chosen; it had never been used, so far, the building simply larger than it needed to be, and it was perfect for the project. It had been his idea to use it, not as much because of the place - the model was large, but he would have found space even in his small apartment, if he'd had to - but also because it seemed more appropriate to build it here, right now, during the exhibition that was creating a closeness to the spirit's past.

He'd already cleaned the room earlier: it was entirely empty, safe for the large table they were going to use.

The spirit only appeared when they were safely inside.

He looked around and smiled; Bakura hadn't seen him so happy since a long time.

"Good choice," he remarked.

Bakura silently nodded his head, since there was nothing to add to that. It was, after all.

It was harder to work there, though, than at home, because they had too little light; the spirit offered to call the shadows over them, for then, meaningless details like vision would become trivial, but after a short try, Bakura decided that he preferred the imperfect light of the electric lamps to perfect vision in a realm of death. The spirit didn't protest, even though oddly enough, he seemed to have much more trouble to deal with the darkness: but he wasn't the one who actually got anything done anyway.



In the evening of the next day, Bakura decided that while painting had been amusing, glue wasn't.

They hadn't done anything. Just some kissing, and some cuddling, and, of course, their hair just called for being attacked by some evil glue-spreading monster and put together in a single sticky mass that could never ever be re-arranged into single hairs. But they had done nothing that justified the fact he was practically stuck to his own bed just because it seemed to be everywhere. The spirit had absolutely no right to be amused either. It was his fault in the first place. It was inevitable you'd get some glue on your fingers when working on the model, but Bakura was certain he wasn't the one who managed to spread it over half of his body and his clothes.

And while laying on his bed with no shirt on and the spirit kneeing beside him with an unusual smile, the very thought of glue was highly disturbing.



"I won't be there with you."

The ring spirit, very solid and real, folded his arms, glared at him stubbornly. Bakura smiled, even thought the refusal pained him: he seemed so human, through this.

It was the first time he refused to accompany him anywhere - under any other circumstances, he would have done so, and no matter what his host thought about it.

"Yugi wants us to be there," he said.

The thief shook his head impatiently, and Bakura felt himself be distracted by the way the hair flew around his head when he did, and then, only slowly, rested again all around his face, only even more spiky and wild than before.

"He wants you to be there, you fool."

Bakura crossed his arms as well. They truly looked like mirror-images, now.

"That's the same."

"And anyway," he went on after a moment of silence, "I will have to bring the ring and-"

The other twitched at that. Hesitated. Logically, he would have to advise his host to bring the ring and not the wear it, but Bakura was almost sure he would not - savage affection and ancient self-preservation instinct standing against this, so instead he argued:

"Yugi-" (he was meaning the other Yugi, or he didn't know the bearer of the puzzle well) "-won't forgive me. Nor will the others."

"You helped us," Bakura protested. "You helped us to fight the brothers Paradox. And Otogi."

"I tried to kill him during battle city." He paused, and gave his host an interested glance. "And yet - you didn't turn against me this time."

Instinctively, as if to make sure it was still there, Bakura laid a hand on the ring.

"It was different," he replied evenly "It wasn't a trick. It was a fair game."

He fidgeted a little under the long, indefinable look the spirit gave him; he wasn't used to be looked at like that, not even by him.

"I could have won," the thief finally snapped.

Bakura smiled faintly at the outraged tone.

"I trust Yugi."

He didn't say "Yugi and his other could and will win any game, no matter how difficult, no matter how poorly prepared, no matter how unfair and tricked the setting", but it's all in his calm smile.


/S/eeing the half-built model was maybe Bakura's favourite part of it. Because, even though he knew how it has come so far - he had too many scratches and glue over his fingers and clothes he wouldn't be able to use anymore to forget - it always seemed as if there truly was a city rising from the earth, being born through some mysterious magic, or rather, no magic at all, only a long, century-long process, which he had the privilege to watch.

More than to watch, to enact, to repeat, to control, like some divinity that was creating this city, and he could already imagine its habitants, creeping through the half-finished houses, waiting...

"It looks perfect for a game..." he murmured, in a strange, nostalgic tone.

"You could use it. It's just a tool, not a holy reliquary. Once we've finished..."

Bakura shivered.

"I could give it to someone to use... I'd love to write a scenario for it."

"You could keep it."

Bakura shook his head.

"I don't think I'll ever play again. Build up, write scenarios, yes, but play...?"

He shuddered. The memory would never cease to be terrifying and mind-numbing, and never, the new-found trust would be able to change that. The spirit gave him a long look, before he very simply leaned over and gently brushed his lips over his.

The kiss was gentle, light at first, but when he was about to pull away Bakura wrapped both arms around him to pull him close, and the spirit deepened the kiss, half tripping the boy over, who reacted by a small moan as his body seemed to melt against the ethereal and yet so real body of the thief as if made to fit against it.

Still holding him with one arm, without which Bakura would have fallen, the spirit reached down, and undid the single button of Bakura's jeans; Bakura matched his movements without the need of a thought.



He woke up more exhausted than when he'd gone to bed, but he forced himself to stand up early all the same, and rushed to the museum as soon as possible.

Part of him was glade it would be over finally. After about an hour, he crumbled down on one of the chairs, and watched the spirit work: he'd become better over the time, he thought with a faint smile. If he practised more, he might be as good as Bakura was himself. He seemed to be naturally skilful with his fingers.

Not a good thing to think about. He needed to concentrate.

The spirit briefly looked up at him, as if he had sensed his thoughts, and he looked away, to keep from blushing, which he would, if he looked him in the eyes. They had snapped the link close over mutual agreement, Bakura was not yet comfortable with the feeling of someone knowing more of his thoughts than himself, even if that person was the spirit, and he did not want to find out his story before the spirit chose to tell him.

But sometimes, a few emotions flew through anyway. The link wasn't as malleable, as controllable, even for the spirit. There were swirls of darkness, glimpses of thoughts and feelings, seeming to wander through the unclear mass of which their magic was made, threads of light in the opaque darkness that would always remain connected to the spirit, even if they let the barriers fall, even if maybe, when Yugi's other's time was over it would be gone, and then what...?

The time they had left, it felt foolish to waste it on the past, did they need to know, he too, had put behind years of silent sufferance, but to dive into this much more ancient past of which all was crumbled down except - but there was more of it but those two spirits, there was Malik, alive and haunted and Kaiba and his visions, and Pegasus and his painting following them to the present, stopping them from leaving behind, what if there had been no cards, if-

If they'd come in a later epoch, if he'd not been chosen, unbearable thought...

His eyes blinked open. The spirit was staring down at him, a worried expression plastered over his face, and Bakura smiled faintly.

"What time is it?"

"Four o'clock."

Bakura nodded, and blinked several more times. There wasn't a window anywhere in the room, and with the large mummy standing against the wall, and the dusty air, it did look as if they were really in an ancient tomb. Somewhat fitting, in a way.

"I think you need fresh air," the spirit remarked, eying him. "Or to actually sleep in a bed."

"I'll be fine," Bakura said, with a smile, a genuine smile, despite of his tiredness.



On Friday, they had finished, and they stood before the completed work with a strange feeling of loss. Bakura nervously twisted his useless fingers and swallowed. He'd miss it.

He glanced at the spirit, who didn't seem to notice, and kept fixing the model with empty eyes, and the feeling decreased. It wasn't over, it was just beginning, but in a way, this had been the easy part. He needed to put together all his courage before he could ask, softly:

"Where did you live?"

The spirit didn't move for a long time, but Bakura didn't press him. He waited patiently while the thief looked over the model with an unreadable expression on his face; and finally, he moved. He walked around the table, and stopped before one corner, and motioned a place on the very edge of the model.

"Here."

Bakura frowned, and joined the spirit. When he recognised the spot he had to mean, his eyes widened.

"But... there's nothing..."

It wasn't true. The spirit had built this part of the map, and it certainly wasn't empty. Only, instead of the carefully shaped little buildings they'd made for the centre of the city, it was covered with half finished houses, and all of the wood pieces the spirit had been burning on the edges had been put there as well. Ruins.

"Don't say that..." the spirit murmured darkly.

"I, I didn't-"

"Look, here," he went on, ignoring the contrite answer, and pointed an a bit larger and not entirely destroyed building. "Inside here is the place where the items were created.

Bakura looked up curiously, his deep brown eyes were searching his lover's to find if he could ask.

"Were you born here?"

"It was a village of thieves," the spirit continued, his eyes still locked on the small space, but hidden by the long hair, and Bakura couldn't see the expression in them.

"Why did you choose to put it here? Why not... why not in the centre?"

"Everything happens between this place and the palace."

With his head, he motioned the complicated, large building far away on the other side of the model.

"Your fight with-"

"...and this place."

The thief had walked around the corner, passed a set of pyramid, and stopped when he was standing in front of a small pile of sand, with four thin stones laying out a square. Bakura frowned, unsure as to what it was supposed to represent.

"What is there?"

"It's the tomb of the pharaoh's father. The ring..." -he smiled- "comes from there."



Saturday, the former tomb robber took his host on a tour guide of Thebes and surroundings. Bakura listened carefully, for he knew that under the words kept general, it was his life he was telling about. But oddly enough, they didn't spend the day in the museum; they didn't feel the need to. They went to the park that was just next to it, and Bakura introduced the ring spirit to ice cream. He went to bed early, to be sure to be in the museum in time to meet Yugi and the others.



Sunday, Bakura was banned away into the deeps of his own mind.