FicWad

Warnings: Vague spoiler for Egypt Arc. A bit of vulgarity.


spirituality


The other has no colour and is cold as stone. Bakura stares at the forearm that props the other up, and it seems as if it's a marble bar. Such a solid seeming thing makes his stomach clench, because it makes Bakura think that this could very well be a trap. He tries to draw a breath and move away, but his knees shake at the attempt and he can only sigh. The spirit gives a knowing snort.

Bakura cringes. He tries to swallow, but his mouth is too dry. He has no more will. It is as if sex proves what he has often been shown: he is a shape around nothingness, without a core of strength, and fitting for this poltergeist to find a home in.

The spirit's solidity flickers, catching Bakura's eye. It's almost fascinating, almost horrifying too look at the spirit: in some places he looks solid but is a shadow that can't be touched, and in other places he can be felt without being visible at all. It's teaching Bakura about how many places on a body there can be. It's unbelievable how many parts there are to see and touch when it's this close. It doesn't matter in this case, though, because this is the spirit. He is, as always, untouchable. He is unwantable. He is not really there.

Not really there... Bakura closes his eyes, and tells himself, /No./.

There is no space between them to deny anything. This is the proof Bakura asked for so that he can stop trying to hide from himself. He'd whispered into the emptiness of his apartment, asking for something so he could know: was there something in the Millennium Ring? Did someone protect him from the attack of that god card? What was real?

The answer could have been another anonymous cut on his arm that he could try to explain away - it could have been harm done to his friends. Instead it involves only the spirit and him. This is right.

The fingers pinning him, deep-deep-in inside, send a sudden message through his body that he has to move, so that he stiffens and arches his back. When his eyes open next, the sheet-imprints on the right side of his face feel the cool night breeze coming through the window keenly; he has moved his head. He wishes he could remember how to move it away, because he's staring at the intent face above him, but the sight is as consuming as the sensations in his skin.

The spirit looks scientifically remote. This is an experiment, Bakura realises, not a trap - yes. (He's struck with the absurd fear that he said the last word out loud, but the spirit's expression has not flickered.) Bakura wonders when his body will be used to do this to someone else. Who will it be? He doesn't need to worry because he won't be able to stop it; he probably won't know it's happening.

He feels himself starting to shake. It starts at his toes and fingers, but soon his entire body is shuddering. The spirit is so cold. It must be his fault...

The bed is starting to fall away beneath his back. He's losing touch of everything except his own body. He is above nothingness, the darkness is inside him. How did this happen? -- He let it.

There is a sensation building in him, and it makes even more of the world go away. There is nothing all around him, he will ... what will he...?

Then the spirit is leaning over him, and as his lips take on solidity on Bakura's forehead, his neck becomes transparent. Bakura's arms lift immediately and his creeping, desperate hands find that there is hair and a hip that can be held on to, their cold easier to feel than the body-warm sheets. This, truthfully, is how it has been for a long time: the spirit is more real than anything else. Now he knows.

His eyes close on their own, shutting out the dimmed sight of the ceiling, and it takes no time for it to be over.

"That is my part. Now, Bakura, you will help me." No air moved because of the saying of the words, but Bakura can feel those lips trying to write a contract on his skin. Everything else he can feel the spirit doing is a movement made to put distance between them. He opens his eyes.

The spirit is leering. "You've had reality pressed into you. You know what to believe, and now you might not turn mad. Happy?".

Bakura can't help staring at the spirit's fingers. If he vomits, he tells himself, he will have to get up and clean it.

The spirit moves away and rearranges himself on the bed as if for comfort. He keeps his face close to Bakura's. "I will be gone soon. Forever," he says, very serious.

"When?".

"I don't have the date, time, and platform number as if it depends on a one-way train ticket! I just know that the time for me to leave is coming closer ... but you have to help me."

Bakura is no good at bargaining, but he has a moment of useful wariness. "What do I have to do?".

"Help me build a world." The spirit's eyes look blankly at plans that lie beyond them. "I need you to build a special RPG."

This is one of those plans. It's one of those RPGs. Bakura knew that he shouldn't help.

"You will leave?" he asks.

"Without a doubt." The spirit focuses on him again, amused. Bakura finds he prefers it. He does not want to be looked through right now.

He wants to tell the spirit that he'll build the table-top game, but his conscience makes it difficult to speak. He nods instead.

The spirit gives him a cold grin and nods back. There is no colour even in his eyes; the moonlight is behind him and renders them a glittering black.

Bakura turns onto his side and curls up, and feels unfamiliar muscles twinge. His breathing is shaky, but he should still be able to fall asleep soon. It would be easier to work through his regrets in the morning. He does not sleep, and will be watching throughout the night, but in the morning light Bakura would be left alone. Mostly alone, at least.