The Return

Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! belongs to Kazuki Takahashi.

This occurs a few months before chapter one.
~~~~~~~~~~~~

He shut off the television as another rumble of thunder echoed in the distance. Domino City was in the middle of a sporadic rainy spell, with today growing progressively worse.

He threw his head back, tapping his arms on the sofa's frame. There was nothing for him to do in this place. Even the boy's presence would be preferable to this tedium.

Unfortunately, Bakura was at school right now and thus unable to entertain him. It would be another half hour before he arrived home, since the weakling had promised to tutor another student or something else singularly as boring. He briefly noted that the boy would be soaked if he stayed much longer, but the thought slipped away easily.

He could just disappear into his soul room, as per usual, but he felt too restless today for that. And possessing the boy was even less of an option. He'd have to fulfill Bakura's duties to keep away suspicion, and the thought of trying to teach Algebra did not amuse.

Stretching, he stood up and paced across the room, pausing in front of the mirror that hung on the wall. He ran a hand through his hair, now a slightly dirty white since the boy had dyed it again.

He was--not that he would ever admit it out loud--disconcerted by the fact that a soft and simple thing like Bakura bore such a resemblance to himself. Though the only real memory of his features he had was the reflection of his face in water, he was certain nevertheless that they had been similar to Bakura's: different eyes and wilder hair, but still very much alike.

He did remember being a good deal stronger than the boy, though. Of course; he had been born into a foreigner slave family, doing hard labor since he was a child, and once he'd escaped, his new life as a thief had required as much raw strength as it did intelligence and luck. The fact that he had been reborn inside this soft brat was the darkest of ironies.

Still, he thought, staring into the mirror, it could have been worse. Useless as he might be, the boy was still a beautiful thing. Though that was little of a saving grace when his search for the Millennium Items was held back by the feebleness of his borrowed body, or when he had to step in and prevent his other from being damaged.

Yet, the attractiveness came in useful at times; especially when he was sneaking into forbidden areas, needed to charm information out of os, os, or simply had to look as though he would never do such a thing.

He paced again, before collapsing onto the couch once more and repeating the tapping, annoyance combining with his restlessness. He finally paused when he heard the sound of keys turning in the front lock.

Hm. Must have been even more dull for the other student, he thought, stretching his legs out.

"Ryou?" an older man's voice asked. He recognized it immediately as the boy's father. Splendid, he thought sourly, ducking his head. Shouldn't he be on a plane?

"Oh, there you are," the man said, catching sight of him over the couch anyway before he could disappear. "I brought dinner for us, since you'll have to fend for yourself the rest of the week," he continued, grinning as he shook out his umbrella.

He pasted on a smile that was a close imitation to the boy's and said, "Thank you, Father. I had a lot for lunch today, but I'll sit with you while you eat."

The man gave him a skeptical look. "Are you certain? You've lost weight recently, Ryou," he said, concerned. "I worry you don't eat enough, especially since I'm around even less lately." The man studied him critically. "You seem fine now," he admitted, "but this morning you were too pale."

Damn it. He would have to keep a closer eye on the boy. He could and had slipped past his other's few acquaintances, but the father was a different issue. Since he was around less, he had a tendency to notice any gradual changes in Bakura quicker than those who saw him day to day.

"Don't worry about me," he said as brightly as he could manage. "I'm eating well."

The man looked unconvinced. "Are you sure? Your voice seems off."

He resisted the urge to growl. The boy's mother was an Englishwoman, so Bakura had grown up with her accent, though he couldn't speak the language and had never seen the country himself. His own voice was a more bastardized version of that inflection, betraying his natural roots. "Oh, it's nothing. All the rain's given me a bit of a cold, but I'm doing fine. I just..." he took a random stab at an emotion he had picked off of Bakura once in hopes of changing the subject, "miss home sometimes."

The man's expression softened, and he said, "I know. It's been a hard move, for the both of us. But...I just felt...it would be better to start over." The man hesitated, then mentioned, "And since I've changed publishers, this move put me much closer to the main office."

He stood up, willing himself to last through this sentimental nonsense. "I understand," he smiled. "It really is all right."

He led the boy's father into the kitchen and was spared the trouble of trying to rber ber where they kept the plates when the man pulled two out of a cabinet. "Are you certain you aren't hungry?" he was asked again, the man shooting him another concerned look.

"Yes," he answered with thinning patience. "We had spaghetti at school," he offered a moment later, remembering that Bakura had cooked that several times before.

The boy's father laughed and shook his head slightly. "I'd have thought you'd be tired of eating that all the time," he said, emptying the containers onto the two plates. "I'll leave this here, so you can reheat it tonight. And don't stay up too late."

"I won't," he promised, annoyed half by the fact that he had gotten a part of the boy's personality wrong, and half by the fact that the man hadn't paid any attention to it. If the father was that blind, he had little hope for the son.

"How are your classes going?" the man asked.

Ereshkigal, take this fool, he thought. "Fine. The teacher has me tutoring the other students sometimes."

The elder Bakura nodded. "That's very good. I know you're a smart boy; I'm glad you can help others. What else?"

He growled mentally and thumbed through his bare knowledge of Bakura's life, trying to come up with something to use for small talk.

He couldn't think of anything, and made a note to learn more about the boy in the case of this happening again. "There isn't really anymore to tell. Nothing new, at least," he said. "How is your book coming along?"

That was apparently the best question to have asked. The boy's father began talking about all the difficulties he was encountering in his research, the xenophobia of the locals at the last place he'd visited, and how the airlines had him scheduled for so many stop-overs he was close to spending more time on the planes than he would in Turkey.

He nodded and pasted what he hoped would pass for an interested expression on his face. Silently, he cursed Bakura for staying late and causing him to suffer through this.

A movement behind the man's shoulder caused him to glance over. It was the boy, looking half drowned and standing in the doorway to the kitchen, staring at the two of them with a horrified expression. Luckily for him, the elder Bakura was sitting with his back to the living room and was oblivious to both his real son behind him and the biting grin on the false one's face. He could simply erase the man's mind if he wanted to, but he had no intention of revealing the extent of his powers while his other remained disloyal.

When the man looked up again, Bakura slipped silently around the corner, disappearing from sight. In turn, he forced his smirk to return to a pleasant smile.

"I just noticed my watch," the boy's father said apologetically. "I'm sorry to run off on you like this, Ryou, but I have to leave. I have to drive another two hours to the next airport since the planes here are grounded." The man stood up.

He did the same. "I understand." He paused, and remembered the boy would ask what he could do. "Is there anything you need help with?"

The elder Bakura shook his head. "No, thank you, son. I've already packed; I just need to put the suitcases in the car and I'll be ready." The man left and walked up the stairs, and he idled in the living room.

As he waited, his other reemerged from around the corner to the laundry and stood in the hallway that ran between the kitchen and the stairs. The boy stared at him, eyes pleading. He didn't move.

At the sound of his father returning down the stairs, followed by the bumping of a suitcase, the boy reluctantly disappeared again--this time into the kitchen. He heard the slight squelch of his sneakers on the linoleum.

The man was dragging a rolling suitcase with a handhold strapped on top, checking the passport and plane tickets with his free hand. Or so he suspected; it all looked like scraps of paper to him. He opened the door.

Once he reached the bottom of the stairs, the man tucked the papers away and looked up at him. "I'll be back by next week. Take care, son."

"I will," he answered, still smiling and holding open the door. "Drive safe."

The boy's father reached out and ruffled his hair, and he strained to keep his smile from turning into a grimace. "I love you, Ryou."

There was no chance in hell he would say that back, no matter how good an actor he knew he was. So there was an awkward moment where the two of them remained silent, and then the elder Bakura walked out the , lo, looking a little hurt.

He waved once as the man packed the trunk, then shut the door as the car started and walked back into the kitchen.

The boy was there, leaning against the wall with his head bent and his hands clenched in fists at his sides. Water dripped from his hair and clothes to pool on the floor.

"He brought you dinner," he said, waving a hand casually at the table. "Eat it. You looo too thin."

He was caught off guard when Bakura shoved him.

The surprise caused him to stumble back a few steps. He stared at the boy, who was now standing straight with tears gleaming in his eyes.

"I've barely seen him for a month!" Bakura yelled. "And you took him away, just like that! You...you bastard!" The boy made to push him again, but heght ght the motion this time and shoved him against the wall, gripping his wrists.

"You pathetic. little. whelp." he bit off. "How did you plan to explain your sudden change in appearance if I had let you take my place?"

The boy stared at hith tth the resentful, angry tears threatening to slide down his face. "I…I don't know." Bakura pushed him away with a strength that surprised him, but he didn't lose his hold. "You still should have let me say good-bye!"

He slammed Bakura back hard so his head bounced against the wall, pinning his wrists over his shoulders, and used his body to trap him in place. "I 'should' do nothing, boy," he grated out, "let alone take orders from something like you."

He glared at the boy, tightening the hold on his wrists painfully, but Bakura--even though his eyes were growing frightened--glared right back. The weakling was actually fighting him again.

Finally. That indication of a spine. He still may not be a complete waste after all, he thought with satisfaction.

His gaze slid upwards from Bakura's face to his hands, which were flecked with red. Upon closer inspection, he realized that the boy had clenched his fists so tight the nails had cut into his palm, leaving little half-moons of blood.

He glanced down at his other's face and the hint of defiance still lingering beneath the fear, and decided. He'd sweet-talked and bullthe the weakling as far as he could, and now that he was showing some mettle it was time to move to more persuasive methods. Still holding one of the boy's wrists against the wall, he lowered the other and lightly licked the blood off.

Bakura went completely rigid against him, and when he glanced at the boy's eyes the anger had drained away, leaving only alarmed confusion.

He ran his tongue across the fresh wounds, causing Bakura to wince slightly. The not unfamiliar taste of blood tingled in his mouth, sharp and coppery. He let his lips drift lower, tasting the fragile skin over the boy's wrist, dragging his teeth carefully over the speeding pulse.

He had thought earlier that the fact Bakura was beautiful rarely acted as a saving grace, but it did so now. He let the boy's hand drop and turned back to his face, where his other was staring at him, wide-eyed. He bent forward and pressed his lips to Bakura's.

The boy didn't move, just continued to slump slightly against the wall and allow his own body to support him. So he grew pushier, tracing the seam of his lips and demanding access.

Bakura opened his mouth without protest and he slipped inside, running his tongue along the roof of his mouth. The boy shuddered, and that movement seemed to bring him to life again.

Bakura arched, trying to push him away, but the boy was no match for his greater strength. He pulled back, looking into Bakura's eyes, and the anger there had returned.

Good. The more he struggled, the more he proved himself worthy of attention.

"Let me go," Bakura demanded, lip only trembling slightly. A point for bravery, a tiny one, but he still had no intention of letting the boy think he was the stronger here.

He continued to stare, never saying a word. Bakura gazed back, but couldn't hide the apprehension in his eyes. He didn't try to push away this time, so they stood there as the kitchen clock ticked away in the background and mingled with the soft dripping of water.

"Please," Bakura asked, his voice betraying the extent to which he was out of his depth.

He narrowed his eyes at that. The boy had already returned to his old, weak, pleading ways. Does he really break that easily? he wondered. I expected better.

He dropped Bakura's wrists and took a step back, freeing the space between them. The boy stood there for a moment, flexing his hands, apparently uncertain of what to do. After another pause, he began to edge toward the door. "Thank you," the weakling whispered.

He reached out and seized him by the arm, jerking him back for another kiss that was little more than a press of lips. Using the moment of shock to his advantage, he forced Bakura to the floor and straddled him, effectively trapping the boy again.

Bakura lay frozen beneath him, refusing to open his mouth this time; so he reached up and squeezed his jaw, forcing his lips to part. The boy made a muffled noise of pain, but he ignored it. This was nothing.

His own clothing was turning damp in the places where it touched the boy's waterlogged uniform, so he broke the kiss. While Bakura was stillpingping for air, he reached down and wrenched at the coat he was wearing. It was difficult, since the fabric was sodden and heavy, but he managed to work it off.

He threw the coat away, hearing it hit the floor with a wet splat, and leaned down to kiss Bakura again. This time, the boy bit his lip.

He sat up again and casually backhanded him. Bakura's head rocked slightly, but that was all; he'd barely hit him. It was just a warning.

"Let me go," Bakura turned his head and asked again, trying to sound brave but still pleading. A drop of his blood had fallen onto the boy's chin.

He wiped away the tiny trail of blood on his lip, not flinching at the stinging sensation the movement caused. "No," he answered.

The boy clenched his hands into fists, but closed his eyes at the words. A sudden burst of anger overcame his rationality. Why does he just accept these things?! Why am I cursed with such a quivering weakling? he thought, enraged. He reached down and jerked Bakura's damp shirt over his head, snapping off a button as he pulled, and threw it in the general direction of the coat.

The Millennium Ring glittered in the florescent lighting of the kitchen, angering him even more. The Ring, that he had suffered and risked so much to gain, had been passed to an unambitious, meek little thing like the boy beneath him. He slapped the Ring off Bakura's chest, and it clanged against the ground next to his ear.

Bakura flinched, but didn't open his eyes. He glared hatefully down at the boy, finally noticing the way he was trembling.

He halted for a moment, until he could calm down. The point of this was to bring Bakura to need him, and to make the weakling forget he had any sort of power on his own otherwise.

The goal was to break the boy, so he could remake him in his own image.

When he was capable of thinking and acting wisely again, he placed his hands on Bakura's chest, finding the skin cool and slightly clammy from his trip through the rain. He frowned as he ran his hands along the boy's sides, feeling the ribs beginning to protrude slightly. The man had been right; he was getting thin.

The flesh beneath his hands began to warm as he lingered there, but the boy was still shaking--though he couldn't tell if it was from the chill of his skin, anticipation of the injuries he was expecting, or from his own unexpectedly gentle touch.

He ran his hands further down the boy's waist, pressing his thumbs into the softness of his stomach as he did so, noting as always the lack of muscles there or anywhere else. Bakura flinched again, but remained still.

The boy was showing a remarkable endurance, but he could tell through their mindlink that he didn't fully believe in what was coming. That denial had often aggravated him before, and he intended to use it against the weakling now.

Keeping his hands on Bakura's waist, he shifted so he was no longer straddling the boy, but one of his legs was now settled between his other's. Then he leaned down and licked off the drop of his blood, rubbing his thigh against the boy's length as he did so. Bakura gasped, and his eyes flew open, staring into the smirking spirit's own.

He reached up and tangled a hand in Bakura's hair, then pushed the boy's legs further apart and slid between them as he leaned down to kiss him again, this time slower. He rolled his hips against the boy's, and was rewarded with another gasp, this one sounding almost pained. He took advantage of the motion to dip inside Bakura's mouth again, flicking the roof before curling around his other's tongue, coaxing him to join.

Another roll of his hips, another gasp, and Bakura slid a hand up to his chest in an attempt to push him away. He refused to budge, and after another few moments the boy did as he wanted, tentatively curling his tongue around his own.

He murmured an approval, then slipped his hand back down Bakura's side to the waistband of his pants, still thrusting and teasing the both of them with the friction. The boy stilled again, but he continued to kiss him, tugging on his hair with his other hand, pulling Bakura's throat taut and causing the boy to whimper.

Leaving his fingers just inside the band for the moment, he managed to kick off their shoes, a difficult task even to his standards. Then he struggled with the button of the boy's pants, attempting to open them without having to tear anything. He knew Bakura would grow jumpy again at any moves of violence, and his boy was enough of a rabbit already.

He pulled his lips away and trailed them along Bakura's smooth jawline, allowing the boy to finally draw a choking breath. He nipped briefly at the soft skin beneath Bakura's ear before brushing his lips down the still over-extended neck and opening the pants with the slightly rain-slippery zipper. He dipped his tongue into the hollow of his boy's throat beneath the Ring's cord, at the same time slipping his hand inside the pants and rubbing the boy through his dampened boxers.

Bakura let out a strangled noise at that and whispered, "Please...I don't...."

He bit down on the boy's collarbone in annoyance, causing Bakura to hold his breath. "Stop begging," he muttered, before slipping his hand under the boxers. He stroked more slowly this time, almost mapping Bakura's flesh and comparing it to his own. Similar, yet different...like everything about them, he noted, brushing his thumb over the tip and causing Bakura to mumble something incoherent.

His irritation alreadssedssed, he returned his attention to the pants and struggled to pull the heavy, damp fabric down. He wrenched off the boxers and socks at the same time and tossed them to his side as he leaned back on his heels, gazing down at Bakura.

The boy shut his eyes and turned his face away, a faint blush spreading over his cheeks as he studied him. The body before him wasn't so new; it was practically his own, only softer, younger, unscarred.

He removed his own clothes with greater ease, since he wasn't struggling with soggy material, and threw them in the same direction as the pants.

He slid his own pants over his hips and divested them as well, hissing in relief when the fabric confining his erection disappeared, then stood up and looked rapidly around the kitchen for something to act as lubricant. He grabbed a small bottle of cooking oil that was near the stove, eyed it critically, and decided he was too impatient to look for anything better. It would do.

When he turned around again, he found Bakura still lying on the floor, eyes tightly closed and fists clenched. With a frown, he strode back and resettled himself between Bakura's legs, twisting open the bottle and spilling the contents into his hand.

He smeared the oil onto his own erection first, squeezing his eyes shut at the pleasure, then reluctantly forced himself to pull away. He dipped a finger into the small puddle of oil that had spilled on the floor, reached underneath Bakura and pulled the boy closer, tilting his hips up as he did so.

He trailed his finger along the dip, then paused as he came to the entrance and wriggled the finger inside. Bakura sucked in his breath at that, and began to squirm against his hold, as if trying to get away from the intrusion. He kept his grip firm and slipped his finger further in, twisting it against the tightness.

It had been more than centuries since he'd shown this much consideration to a bed partner, and even longer still since he'd had one as inexperienced as Bakura. He slipped another finger inside, still twisting, running a hand over his own erection as he did so.

When he pulled out, Bakura whimpered, though from displeasure or relief he didn't know and no longer truly cared. He stared down at his boy impatiently, noticing a soft sheen of sweat had replaced the earlier dampness. "Lift up your hips," he said.

Bakura finally opened his eyes and stared at him, expression wary.

"Lift your hips," he repeated. "I'm no acrobat." Bakura twisted slightly, but wasn't getting it right.

Virgins, he thought to himself. He rocked back on his heels and settled into a comfortable kneeling posture, then reached down and griped Bakura's waist, pulling him up.

The boy continued to give him a slightly hazy, pleading look as he positioned him over his member. Keeping one hand on himself as a guide, he used the other to push Bakura down.

As the tip of his erection hit the boy's entrance, Bakura's eyes shut tightly again and his breath hitched. Ignoring the noise, he removed his hand and griped Bakura's other hip, pressing down.

As soon as he was inside, Bakura yelped in pain and then bit his lip harshly with a sob, trying to stifle the noise. He continued to pull his other down, moving with far more care and patience than he wanted. It would be easier to just to hold the boy still and take him, to stop wasting his time with this teasing... and it's been so long....

Bakura dropped his head onto his shoulder, speaking so quietly he almost had to feel the words ghosting along his skin. "Please stop," he whispered brokenly. "You're hurting me."

He pushed more firmly, until he was finally all the way inside, and then halted himself with a grunt. Bakura was shaking against him, and he could feel the dampness of tears on his shou whe where the boy lay his head.

He held still, forcing back the urge to ignore the boy and simply take his pleasure in the tight, sticky warmth surrounding him. His grip on Bakura's hips tightened, drawing a choking sob from the boy, but he kept a rein on his self-control and waited for his other to adjust.

After another minute passed and more of Bakura's hot tears fell on his skin, he rocked his hips slightly, drawing a protest from the boy. Tired of waiting, he lifted Bakura and brought him down again, soon falling into a speed he didn't consider too harsh. Judging by Bakura's grip on his arms, though, he might be overestimating.

By the gods...it had been too long since he'd taken someone else to his bed. Just because he was hunting for the Millennium Items didn't mean he needed to ignore all the pleasures of life....He let his head fall back as he thrust up again, still guiding Bakura's hips.

"Ah!"

At the sound, he looked up at the boy. Bakura's eyes were squeezed shut, lips parted in surprise. Judging from the look on his face, the new angle was just right.

He let his head drop back again, his thrusts growing more careless once he was no longer concerned with his other's comfort. The sharp cries that fell from Bakura's lips with each move told him that his boy was doing well enough as it was.

He felt hands being tentatively placed on his shoulders, and then Bakura pushed back against him as he drove upwards. He made a sound of approval, and after Bakura pushed down again he let one of his hands slide up from the boy's hip to grip his erection.

Bakura moaned something pleading and incoherent as he began to stroke, hand slick with sweat and oil. The pace was erratic; he was too dizzy with the heat and the oil and the lingering nepenthe taste of his boy to keep things in time.

After another, harder thrust Bakura cried out loudly and the flesh around him tightened. The boy jerked in his grasp, semen splattering over his hand and stomach. Another thrust and he came with a guttural groan, before collapsing to the ground and landing on top of Bakura.

He untangled himself from his other and pushed him away slightly, stretching out on the cool linoleum. He wiped the semen off his stomach and onto the floor, falling into a haze he hadn't experienced since before he'd been locked away. Bakura lay still beside him, and the lazy seconds stretched out into minutes as he drowsed. Then Bakura stood up and left the kitchen, the soft sound of footsteps on the stairs telling him of his boy's general direction. The shower soon began to run.

Later the floor became no longer comfortable, and he got up long enough to clean the rest of the mess off of himself. He tossed the nearly empty bottle into the trash, noting the continuing noise of running water, and glanced at the clock.

The shower had been going for almost an hour. He gritted his teeth in anger and stalked up the steps, heading for the boy's bathroom. nsidnside, he slipped into the shower and hissed as he realized how hot the water was. Taking in Bakura's pink-tinged skin, it had been that way for a while. The realization only angered him further as he felt his attempts slipping away.

He wrapped an arm around the boy's soapy chest, pinning him, and growled as the water stung and burned. He leaned forward and whispered harshly, "You won't get rid of it like this, Ryou. You can't wash me away."

Bakura refused to look at him and bit down on his already bruised lip as the shower splashed water over their faces.

He took the boy again, using only the soapsuds as a lubricant and leaving Bakura shaking from the pain, even as his hand brought his other to orgasm once more. Then he disappeared into the Ring without another word.

~~~~~
Ryou sank to the bottom of the shower as soon as the spirit was gone, then whimpered at the burning sensation the movement caused. He stretched out gingerly along the shower floor, finally finding a position that didn't hurt as much, and stayed there until the hot water ran out.

When the water had turned uncomfortably cold, he stood up carefully and shut it off before stepping out of the shower and cautiously drying. He had to walk slowly back to his room, and putting on clothes was even more difficult. Finally though, he looked human again--save for the fact that his hair was a wet, tangled mess.

Ryou glanced at the reflection of his pallid, tired face in the mirror, and decided that the day couldn't get any worse unless the drier blew up.

Morbidly deciding to test that theory, he made his way down the stairs, wincing each time he took a step too hard, and gathered all the clothes in the kitchen before carrying them into the laundry room.

He put everything into the drier and set it. Nothing exploded.

So he lay down again on the floor, searching for a comfortable position. At last he stretched out on his stomach with his head cradled in his arms and fell asleep listening to the rhythmic noise of the drying machine. He had nightmares.


~