Well. It's a Bakura POV, and for some reason I can write a Yami Bakura POV without him thinking of Bakura at all, but any Bakura POV seems to revolve around his other. Also, for some odd reason this isn't as fluffy as Snow Angel was, which makes absolutely no sense – you'd think that Bakura would be fluffier than Yami Bakura.

I'd like to thank Sukaigetsu for revealing to us all how Yami Bakura addresses his host as "landlord." It's so cute.

This is a companion to Snow Angel. So that's what a plotbunny is? Cursed little buggers.

Drizzle Away

The first day of the New Year. January first. It's raining. Oh, this is a wonderful omen, I'm sure.

Of course, if I told him that, he'd ignore the sarcasm and agree enthusiastically. Something about him and precipitation. Rain, snow, hail the size of eyeballs, it doesn't matter. He loves it all, and he'd go run out and dance in a thunderstorm even if the other Yuugi was watching. He doesn't care what others think; he'll do as he pleases and the rest of the world can keel over and start twitching and damn if he'll care. Well, let me amend that; he'd probably start laughing at them.

It's actually rather amusing to watch him shout and run around in the heavy rain, screaming in competition with the thunderclaps. I'd say it's one of his more endearing qualities. Here's hoping he didn't pick up on that thought.

So, yes. It's raining today, and I planned to sleep in until noon at least, maybe even two in the afternoon. I did stay up until four AM, and had a few glasses of champagne, and so sleep was my good friend. "Was" would be the operative word there, because at eight AM – eight AM! Fucking Hell – my body decided to get up and run downstairs and out the door.

It's a very odd sensation. Have you ever been walking somewhere, and your mind wanders but you keep walking, and then you trip and you realize that you've walked at least three blocks? Or perhaps you were heading to the store but your feet have taken you to a friend's house without you noticing. It's a little like that when he takes over. My mind is free to wander, or to watch him (unless he blocks me out, which he can do at will and which I can't figure out how to do to him) while my body goes and does what he tells it to.

I can't get control back either – at least, not unless somebody's life is in danger and I'm really trying. Otherwise I'll yell and whine all I want, which is a while because my throat doesn't get sore when I'm not speaking out loud, and he'll just go on with his business.

I've been locked up in my head and unable to watch the real world for days at a time. I wouldn't even have known it was for days, except for the calendar when I did finally "wake up." Time passes very oddly when one's alone in one's head. Although I'm not truly alone – he's there too – but he doesn't talk with me much.

He calls me "landlord," sometimes, when he does talk to me. It's funny.

You'd think I'd be able to evict him.

I've gotten over it by now. The fact that he's not as bloodthirsty and homicidal as he used to be has helped my acceptance of sharing a body, but it's still alarming every time I start to move and realize that I'm no longer in control.

And if he gets me sick by dancing out in this cold, miserable drizzle, in my pajamas and socks and nothing else, after I've had only four hours of sleep, I will rant at him until he wishes he had a body too, so he could slap me to shut me up.

But, hey, I needed to wash these pajamas anyway.

Humans adapt, he tells me. "It's an amazing quality," he said, maybe even wistfully. "You can change to your environment, you can get over things and forget, you can accept something after long enough." Then he was silent and wouldn't say anything, and I'm not complaining because he's always rude to me anyway (at the same time calling me his honoured landlord), but even if he hadn't been in my head I would have known he was sad.

It's true; time heals things. People move on, people change and adapt to deal with the horrors around them. I've gotten used to this cynical, cruel mind that I share a body with and who has, on occasion, injured us and enjoyed the pain or threatened the lives of anyone and everyone I hold dear, or done both at once. I've even come close to forgiving him, though I don't think I'll ever tell him that unless it's a life/death situation. He's still an asshole.

Oh, great. Now I'm the one standing out here in the rain, no shoes, numb fingers, and my neighbor is staring at me. Thank you very much, other me.

Even so… I go up to the porch and sit on the steps, but I don't go in.

There's something nice about the rain. It's soothing. The constant tapping noise as it hits the window has a lulling quality to it, as opposed to snow, which is just silent.

It's a new year. It's a new year and it's rainy, and while most people might think this is bad, they'll forget it over time, maybe even over a few days.

Or they might even look at it as the rain washing everything of the old year away, making everything nice and wet and clean for the future.

My toes hurt, but I'll stay out here a little more. Now it's all your fault if you get sick from the cold, he tells me, and I guess it will be. I'm tired, too; only four hours of sleep will do that to you.

I'll probably forget all these things I'm thinking when I go back to bed. I'll lose them, just like people forget everything else. My mind's a bit hazy right now, so I'll go back inside before I fall asleep on the porch and freeze to death.

I just hope that whatever it is that hurts the other me so badly, he can forget it too, over time.

La fin… vraiment, ce fois.