Yu-Gi-Oh! Fan Fiction ❯ Complications ❯ Complications ( Chapter 1 )

Title: Complications
Author: Shella
Summary: In the dunes of Egypt, as he searches for a place where he belongs, Bakura finds something from his past, and he and Ryou discover something about their future. [shounen-ai]
Genre: Angst
Pairing/s: Bakura/Ryou, implied Bakura/OC
Rating: PG
Warnings: male + male romance (although it's not blatant), inadvertent pretentiousness. POV changes signalled by double-spaced paragraph.
Spoilers: None that I can think of. Do any of the yami/hikaris ever get their own bodies?
Feedback: Detail appreciated
Archive: Let me know, okay? I wouldn't mind finding more Ryou/Bakura works
Disclaimer: The anime & manga Yu-Gi-Oh do not belong to me. I'm just borrowing the characters because they inspire me. No profit is being made save enjoyment.

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Together they scramble up the face of the dune, sinking into the soft, granular sand almost to the tops of their sneakers before lift-and-dragging onward. The desert is cold on the surface under a full moon, but underneath there still lingers a hint of the day's warmth. The night has only just begun.

Ryou's calves ache so that he catches his breath with every step, the dryness of the air wounding his temperate-acclimatised lungs. But he forces his way on, determined not to let the sobs in his throat escape. At least the sun is no longer in his eyes. He can see better now than he could before the boiling golden face slid below the horizon - can see the path his yami is taking, and follow it.

Bakura is taking the easiest way up the dune - on the windward side, where oven-hot storms like the breath of dragons have packed the sand almost firm. He follows his feet just below the crest in motions he memorised to instinct five thousand years ago.

The stars in an ink-black sky and the sands of his ancient home call to him, infusing his blood and his mind with the roaming restlessness that ruled him before he ever found the Millennium Ring. His lungs wheeze with effort and his legs groan in protest - this body is new and weak - but he maintains his pace, following his heart to the pyramids and oasises and a hundred other landmarks remembered from another life, another time.

There are no animal sounds this night. Usually the evening is when the desert comes alive, when their enemy - the water-stealing sun - has retreated and the heat has subsided. But not tonight. Hawks, lizards, mice, insects … all are silent, home in their lairs. The only sound is the heavy, exhausted tread of two humans.

Ryou studies the figure in front of him. Ever since the two came to Egypt, Bakura has been restless - even more so when his birthplace's powers strengthened the Ring to where he could create and maintain a body of his own. He fidgets constantly, like his palms itch. He paces incessantly, like his feet are on pins and needles. Through their mind-link - weaker now but still there - and with his own eyes Ryou watches his yami with concern.

He sighs. Not that Bakura will ever accept his help or - Ra forbid - ask for it. His darker half is proud, aloof and fiercely independent, and will abandon him as soon as he feels comfortable in this modern world, he is sure.

Nevertheless Ryou follows him into temples and tombs, visits the museums and stores, and listens to the frustrated mutterings about ignorant mortals who have no idea about anything. The tour guide at the last place they'd visited had been stunned when Bakura had - loudly and contemptuously - corrected a translation of an ancient scripture. He'd bought Ryou's hastily-offered excuse that his brother had studied Egyptian hieroglyphs through a correspondence course, but the teenager had thought it advisable to leave quickly anyway.

He doesn't know why he continues to tail the tomb robber, only that it's easier and somehow safer than staying behind.

So now they scramble among the dunes in search of something more real to Bakura than the sanitised artificiality of the tourist areas. The moon soars over them and the air grows chill, and still he struggles on, half remembering where to go and half relying on instinct.

As they head further into the desert wilderness, away from landmarks and familiar places, the driven flight of the white-haired spirit falters. So much has changed … the living landscape he once knew has been buried, overwhelmed by tons of sand. The earth itself has changed. Where he once stood on green grass beneath tall trees, now only endless lines of dunes undulate beneath his feet and beyond the edge of his vision. How can this still be his home, when everything is different?

"Bakura?" comes a hesitant voice, and the tomb robber snaps back to the moonlit night of the desert. Visions of a thriving land, lush with life and enchantment, flee into the gold-tinged forgetfulness of the past, and Ryou's hand is on his shoulder.

He shrugs it off, his inner turmoil manifesting itself in frustration at his hikari and the disturbing and inexplicable sensations evoked by the contact. "Don't touch me," he snaps, and plunges forward into the valley of doubt between two dunes, cursing as he finds himself listening for the murmur and chatter of a river that no longer flows.

He is heartsick and angry, yearning for a time and a place as native to him as his own glare reflected in water or metal, where the only physical link to the person he used to be isn't a slim, pale boy so uncannily similar to himself. …At least, in outward appearance. He is strong, but Ryou is soft and weak, pathetic in his need for protection. He wouldn't survive a day in the world Bakura belonged to. He barely survives in his own, since the tomb robber came into his life. But now the spirit has his own body, and the teenager can return to Japan and live normally once again, without him.

The thought makes Bakura angry, and he doesn't know why.

To Ryou's surprise, his yami is on the move again, quicker than before. Inspiration has struck anew and Bakura almost strides across the dunes, his head up and his eyes fixed on a distant horizon. Ryou labours behind, caught in his physicality even as his thoughts fly ahead with his darker half. He hates his legs for struggling, his lungs for burning; he almost wishes he and Bakura still shared a body so he could travel with him without the effort of forcing his own weak flesh to keep up with the tomb robber's swift thoughts.

At the top of the next ridge he realises that he can't see Bakura anywhere, and his heart faints. Not this, please, he begs silently of no one in particular. His head feels dizzy, uncertain; if it were possible he'd say his brain was nauseous. The exhaustion of the nighttime trek, questing vainly after a dreaming idea, pushing himself to his limits for too long at a stretch, catches up with him. He leans forward, hands on his knees.

An exultant burst of laughter startles him from his darkening fatigue. The moon swims out from behind her curtain of black and he recognises his yami's voice.

"Yes! It's here!"

Tired beyond belief, throat and lungs on fire, muscles like jelly, Ryou nonetheless forces his knees to bend, his back to straighten. He feels his calves cry as the sand drags at them, knows and experiences the gut-wrenching ache of putting one foot in front of the other long after they can't, and follows the sound of his dark side's happiness.

The dune he's on ends abruptly onto empty space, and Ryou realises he's standing on top of a building. There are two, facing each other, nearly buried in the sand that has crept up and over them through the centuries. In the empty space between them stands Bakura.

The tomb robber looks up to see his hikari on the building above him, silhouetted against the night sky and framed by stars. He grins, the feral one that shows his canines, and bounds up the face of the dune that slopes so conveniently from the roof of Ryou's building to the flat space in front of it. All previous tiredness is forgotten, all bitterness and anger - well, some of it - is disregarded. He has found something that remained.

His light takes a step backwards as he approaches, looking wary despite the smile that says he's pleased Bakura is happy. He laughs again, although whether at the rediscovery of his old haunt or at Ryou's expression he's not sure. He feels as though he's sitting on a bubble of glee.

"You've been here before?" the other boy offers timidly, and it's all too much.

Bakura whoops with delight and grabs Ryou's hands. The startled expression on his hikari's face is too hilarious for words; he throws his head back and laughs, spinning his lighter half around in an outburst of manic energy that can only happen after midnight.

But Ryou is tired; bewildered and exhausted, he stumbles and sprawls on his side in the sand. This Bakura finds even more amusing - he gives a great shout of laughter and races to the edge.

"I am here!" he yells, exultant and enthralled and alive. Ryou stares as his yami stands, legs akimbo and arms spread wide, daring the night and the wind and the gods to challenge him. The air is still and silent; all life and all motion is centred in the white-haired Egyptian spirit. Ryou can't tear his eyes away from him.

Abruptly the spirit turns. Stars burn in the eyes that seek out his light's fallen form, and the younger boy gulps as the shadow advances.

But he merely throws himself down beside the other and breathes, and Ryou realises suddenly how much it means for Bakura to be free in his own place. He draws a shuddering breath. Of course, his yami will want to stay here when Ryou returns to Japan … it's where he belongs, after all…

"Don't presume to tell me what I want," growls the subject of his thoughts, and Ryou realises their mind-link is open. Respectful of Bakura's privacy as well as his own, he moves hastily to rectify the situation, but a deft mental pressure stops him. Surprised, he cranes his neck to meet Bakura's gaze, echoing the question in his face with his thoughts.

The other looks away, at Egypt around them, and doesn't answer for a while. Finally, he mutters, "It's not as simple as that," and touches Ryou's hand.

Something light and powerful rushes through him at the contact and his skin prickles. But on the heels of the physical touch comes the mental one, and Ryou winces. For so long, the connection between his mind and Bakura's meant only one thing, and even though he knows the spirit no longer needs to control Ryou's body, he still doesn't - can't - trust him.

The intrusion pauses, and from his yami the younger boy senses a bite of impatience. There is anger there, too - the indignation felt by a traitor when for once he is loyal and true. And is that … remorse?

Slowly, cautiously, against every instinct, Ryou releases the locks and barriers of his mind, and is taken back five thousand years to a time and a place he has only glimpsed through the fragmentary remnants of memories left in his consciousness after the other's withdrawal. Gold and spice and heat permeate his senses and oxygen steals into his lungs.

Then vision returns, in a sweep of colour, the heat-eddied middle-of-the-day brightness dazzling eyes accustomed to the desert's night. Sound crashes around him in deafening shambles and he is stunned by an explosion of sensory perceptions. Noise! Light! Heat! A thousand different odours assault him, ranging from the mildly pungent to the decidedly offensive - cinnamon and musk, sweat and breath, animals and their droppings, food of every kind and the dusty, spicy tang of the desert.

He is in a marketplace, a staggering kaleidoscopic mesh of all classes and peoples. Double lines of stalls stalk the streets, hung all over with anything anyhow and groaning under the weight of "Fresh, juicy fruit!" and "Lovely copper bangles!", of "Spices, salt and flour!" and "Bargain-price meat!" He sees a cage full of exotic birds next to a table laden with bizarre musical instruments. Strong men and fire-eaters perform in front of gawking audiences, dancing girls in scandalous costumes shimmy enticingly and every so often one will disappear through a door with an eager-looking man in tow. And people! everywhere, jostling and shoving, barging and pushing, crowding in every direction like a mass of robed sheep, all talking, yammering, shouting, yelling, haggling, gossiping at the top of their voices. Ryou doesn't know whether he's thrilled or terrified.

Then Bakura strides past him, purposeful and focused, and the younger boy panics. He dashes after his yami, fearful of getting lost in this place that seems more real and powerful and alive than his own. He follows the mane of spiked white hair through the mingling press of bodies, eyes desperately locked onto the cream-robed figure with a silver-brown cord knotted around his waist.

His feet seem to barely touch the ground as he darts and weaves between the crush of people, almost giddy with the overload of sensations that both scare and elate him. He's shy in crowds, and timid around lots of noise and lights, but here he feels he could maybe get used to it.

Bakura has ducked into an alley between two buildings that look indistinguishable from those around them. Ryou follows diligently and is in time to see his yami disappear through a doorway screened by a beaded curtain. From within is exuded the scent of incense and a woman's rippling laughter. He follows, with a sinking feeling in his stomach that has nothing to do with the darkness of the descending stairway.

By the time he catches up with his darker half, the Egyptian is slipping off his robe. The flush that springs to Ryou's cheeks at the sight of his undressed yami quickly drains when he sees what company the other is keeping.

She is beautiful - tanned skin, slender limbs, and mysterious kohl-rimmed eyes that promise an ecstasy of sins. She sits up in bed, a smirk playing on luxurious lips as Bakura joins her, and Ryou turns away, feeling a hot jealous sting in his heart.

He nearly walks into a person standing behind him. Eyes on the ground, he stammers an apology and steps sideways and out the door without looking at them.

"Ryou," says Bakura, and his hikari spins around. Emerald eyes widen, than dart from the figure before him to the room they just exited. He looks confused. Bakura sighs impatiently. "This is my memory," he explains, with a bite in his voice. "I'm here. The me in there is the one that existed five thousand years ago." He watches comprehension dawn on his lighter side's face.

A frown mars Ryou's features as he assimilates this knowledge. "Who was she?" comes the question, loaded with suspicion and the jealousy of a hikari unconsciously possessive of his other half.

Bakura smirks. He knows Ryou doesn't like this particular expression on him, but he does it anyway. The glare he receives - half annoyance, half embarrassment at being caught revealing emotions he doesn't want - is worth it.

"Nobody special," Bakura says dismissively. Ryou's green eyes seem to intensify reflexively and he all but scowls at the doorway, obviously not inclined to take Bakura's reassurance at face value. This in itself is amusing, but when the teenager realises what he's doing and tries to pretend it didn't happen Bakura bursts out laughing.

The fury in his hikari's face is beautiful to see. Normally Ryou is the peaceful one, not given to darker emotions. When he does indulge his baser instincts, Bakura always feels a certain satisfaction. Nobody can be that angelic all the time, and it's the tomb robber's job to corrupt his lighter half. He doesn't know why he doesn't just abandon the boy and make his own life, but something holds him back. It's not just the inescapable bond shared by yami and hikari - there's something else there, and it confuses him because when he tries to identify it, it seems to tend towards something dangerous.

So he doesn't think about it. Instead he heads back up the stairs to the level of the street and waits for Ryou to join him. Soon they are standing side by side, not touching, watching the chaotic menagerie of the market, and something bittersweet makes Bakura's brows furrow and his eyes distant.

"Yami?"

The voice is hesitant as always - why can't he ever be assertive? - and the spirit frowns, not looking at its source. He releases the concentration on this memory and abruptly they are back in the present, in the chill desert night. His light gasps softly in surprise, and then a shiver overtakes the slim body.

"It's my home," Bakura says abruptly, and Ryou turns to look at him. The tomb robber is glaring into the distance, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes focused on something far beyond vision. As he speaks, his voice is quiet, but strong - an iron fist in a velvet glove. "It's what I know and where I feel like I belong. I … knew people there. Like Ishtari." Ryou knows his yami is talking about that woman, and is embarrassed at the automatic sting of jealousy her name evokes. The spirit notices, but doesn't respond. "But … when I went back, I felt … wrong. It was all so familiar, and I knew I could never do anything new. I couldn't live there - I'd waste away in my memories. And here, now … it's just too close." A pause, and then the definitive. "I can't go back."

"Bakura…" Ryou whispers. For some reason he feels sympathy for his darker half, when their history declares that he should still hate him. He doesn't trust him yet, and doesn't know if he ever will, but he doesn't want him to feel lost and alone. He reaches out a hand and touches his yami's wrist.

"So I'm staying with you." Not a request; a statement. Conflicted thoughts and clumsy emotions wend their way into Ryou's mind from his other half, and although he's not asking for it the younger boy realises that his approval, his permission, will be acknowledged.

"That's okay."

There are eyes like oak - strong and unbendable, but with pulsing life below the surface - on his own and the teenager catches his breath. Bakura grabs him by the shoulders and devours his gaze. "You should hate me," he says. "I used you. You should never want to see me again." Why? Why don't you despise me? He holds the other's eyes, searching for the something he senses binding them, needing to know whether his hikari senses it too.

Ryou swallows, scared on one level but feeling something entirely different on another. He doesn't hate him. Again he reaches out to his yami; this time his hand gently embraces the other's cheek, and he forces a smile that his muscles reject but his heart feels. He realises he knows so much - he knows that Bakura will always be there, and always be accepted, and that out of the injuries the dark spirit did to him they can build something. He feels this and thinks this, and his yami's eyes widen.

"It's not as simple as that," he says, and Bakura's eyes soften, just a bit - just enough. The future is theirs, and the night, after all, has only just begun.

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