Heh. I've had two snow-days in a row for the first time since I was nine; can you blame me for this fic?

Yami Bakura POV. He might be OOC, but I've never been able to imagine him as truly evil/abusive, so…blah.

"Snow Angel"

The sound of day-old and slightly iced-over snow crunching beneath his shoes is one of my favourite sounds. He's gotten used to it by now; as soon as I realize it's snowing, or that there's snow on the ground, I'll seize control of the body and throw him into his soul room. Scared the shit out of him the first time, until he realized that I wasn't trying to kill anybody (for once).

The first time – have you ever wanted to just touch something? Even if you know you can't use it or don't know what the Hell it is, you want to know what it feels like, you want to know that it's there and existing? That was the first time I saw it snow. I took off one of his gloves and plunged his bare hand into the building piles of the white stuff, and it was wonderful. The cold stung and burned and was absolutely delicious, even if I had no clue what was causing it.

I've always loved cold, even back in Egypt. When the temperature would drop at night – that was my favourite part of the whole blasted land. I loved it because it was a beautiful, crisp contrast to the days; it was a change, if you will. I loved the cold because everybody else hated it. And it gets even colder here, and here it snows.

Then again, the snow really pisses me off. It's so white and easy to stain. The roads are beautiful with that white covering, until a car – just one car, that's all it takes – comes driving through, leaving two brown and sordid tire tracks. The main roads are full of dirty slush, foul and splashing as the wheels spin through it. It reminds me of certain other things that were easily spoiled.

It's so easy to discolour and so hard to preserve that beautiful white of the first layer, deceiving in its beauty. It's fun, too, to run through that pure covering and leave the first footprints in it, marring that perfect surface. I guess that's part of human nature, to destroy beautiful things. It makes it difficult to find a nice, untouched spot for him, a spot with no footprints or brown slush or yellow remnants from dogs, when I do relinquish control.

That first time –

It's called snow, he told me. I knew he was surprised that I liked it – most people from Egypt can't stand the cold. It hurt, and his fingers were numb from me crushing the chunks of snow between his fingers, but I loved it. Chalk it up to my masochistic tendencies.

I'll show you something cool, if you let me, he said then, amused and happy, because who can't help but smile with all that pure snow around to run through? That's what I'd been doing, stomping around and messing up that lovely smooth coating of white, although not many would classify my too-wide and too-toothy grin as a happy smile. Intrigued, I gave him back his body, and he trudged over to a spot of untouched snow and threw himself down on his back. I watched bewildered while he moved his arms and legs and got snow down the neck of his jacket and into his boots, and when he stood up he had to explain to me what an "angel" was before I understood what he'd done.

So each time, after I've had my fun, running about and yelling, ruining the absolute beauty of unmarked and untainted snow with my footprints, kicking up the white fluff and seeing if it's good for snowballs, and generally scaring anybody who's nearby with my "smile," I'll find him a spot that I deem good enough for him (and not many are), a spot that's still pure and white.

And he makes me a snow angel. 

La fin

Joyeuse Noël