Disclaimer: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh! or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.

A/N: This is a terribly old fic. Warning for abuse.

Bakura licks his fingers as he struts into the room, a few stray beads of sugar still clinging to his lips. He isn't supposed to eat raw sugar, he's been told a thousand times, but Bakura isn't supposed to do a lot of things. ...And the more he's told he can't do something, the more he particularly wants to do it. (Maturity isn't one of his strong suits.)

There isn't much to do while Ryou's at school, really. Bakura doesn't often admit it—he likes his little hikari to think he's full of important matters, when really he just strolls around the house upending general chaos. It's petty, perhaps, to drink milk straight out of the carton and leave pastry crumbs all over the floor for Ryou to clean up. But now that Bakura's banned Ryou from doing most things—especially seeing his little friends or daring to make new ones—there isn't much for Ryou to do either, apart from bearing Bakura's wrath and cleaning up his messes. Ryou does like to keep a clean house when he can—something Bakura finds ever-amusing to mess with.

He's slightly surprised when he finds himself back in the bedroom, and it's already pre-destroyed. The covers are all tangled and slipping off the bed, which isn't at all usual. Ryou makes his bed every day before school without fail. To be fair, though, today there wasn't time. Bakura woke him up by yanking him out of bed by his hair, tossing him to the floor and physically kick him out of the room. Bakura smirks to himself at the memories; a good start to any day.

Ryou was a frantic mess trying to get ready this morning. He was practically in tears in the bathroom—something Bakura knows from joyfully pressing his ear to it. There's something so satisfying about seeing something so fragile shatter in his hands: Ryou-breaking is Bakura's favourite pastime.

When Ryou's at school, life is dreadfully boring, and Bakura flops onto the mattress with hands itching to destroy. He glances around the place blankly, sucking up the last of the sugar grains off his fingers. There should be a few hours or so left before Ryou gets home—what to do, what to do...

He falls back against the pillow before abruptly sitting up again, yelping and rubbing at his neck. Something jagged dug into his skin—Bakura tosses the pillow aside; there's a silvery-blue book nestled under it.

Bakura blinks. It isn't often he encounters something in the house new—he considers all of it his, and has upended it multiple times in favour of exploring his kingdom. But this book is something entirely different. It isn't one of Ryou's schoolbooks—they'd all be in his bag—and it isn't one of Ryou's atrocious romance novels—Bakura already tore the pages out of all those. He picks up the book with brimming curiosity, eyes raking the front cover.

It reads, in a flowering, intentionally-pretty scrawl, 'Ryou's Diary.'

Bakura's eyes go too wide for his skull. A diary? Sweet Ra, he must've hit his hikari one too many times and caused some lasting damage. Bakura can't fathom anything more stupid for Ryou to keep, and he finds himself grinning gleefully as he flips it open, reaching over with one hand to grab a red marker off the nightstand. He keeps a collection there for destroying homework and walls, but this is sure to be a far more noble pursuit.

Because Bakura doesn't actually care what his hikari has to say, he flips through several full pages before actually settling down to read. Under the date, in the same ludicrous, effeminate writing as the title, it says:

Dear Diary,

I should officially be locked up. I'm too insane to function. When I first did research to handle this particular sort of insanity (as I obviously can't tell anyone real for fear of being actually locked up) it said a diary was supposed to help. Well, I'm proof that it doesn't. Two weeks in and I still have only the same inane, deranged thoughts to record.

Snorting, Bakura uncaps his pen and adds between paragraphs: You're unacceptably boring, even in text.

Then he returns to reading, wondering only vaguely what sort of 'inane, deranged thoughts' his sniveling excuse for a hikari entertains.

He hit me today. Bakura doesn't even need to read on to know that he's the 'he' in that. He reads on. That's nothing new. Today it was hard enough to knock me to the floor, and he climbed on top of me and whispered all sorts of names and dark things in my ear, until I was fighting back tears. I try not to cry in front of him—I know it only encourages him, but sometimes I just can't help it. Why does he do this to me? Even though I... I...

But the book cuts off. There's a slightly crinkled, grey patch on the page, from what Bakura brightly assumes is a stray tear. The thought of his hikari crying always brings a smile to his lips, and he reads on with barely restrained excitement.

Diary, I don't know what's wrong with me. Seriously. I need my head checked. I should probably talk to someone, even though it will reveal more than I'm worth. ...Maybe I should talk to Yugi. He might understand. He's the only one that ever could, anyway. Only, his yami doesn't beat him senseless for no apparent reason, so it isn't exactly the same...

Bakura pauses to scowl, as he always does whenever Yugi and that good-for-nothing pharaoh are mentioned. Why talk to them, anyway? Does Ryou somehow think it'll be worth all the bruises Bakura will give him? Flourishing his pen again, Bakura quickly adds, 'You're forbidden from doing anything of the sort.'

...He does know that isn't entirely necessary, as chances are Bakura will be confronting his hikari the second Ryou steps through the door. He still gets a vindictive pleasure out of passive aggressively writing it down though, if for nothing else than to terrify an unsuspecting Ryou at a later date. Bakura vaguely considers not saying anything aloud at all, and simply hiding the diary again like he never found it, then racing in the moment Ryou discovers the notes and inevitably bursts into tears.

He's such a crybaby. Bakura tries to ignore the image in his head of a messily sobbing Ryou, because it's fascinating and distracting, before continuing on with the next paragraph.

But it's as close as I'll get. He knows what it's like to have a very attractive slice of your soul strutting around, always too close and always in your head. He's always there—I feel like he's in every part of me—so it sort of shocks me that he hasn't figured any of this out yet...

Any of this out? Bakura blinks again. He is in every part of Ryou, whether he wants to be or not, and he does know every part of Ryou. The idea that Ryou might have some sort of secret is mildly mind-boggling.



Bakura's eyes dart back up, scrolling over the second sentence again. Is Ryou referring to the pharaoh or Bakura? Either way, Bakura's shocked. (Not that Ryou being gay is entirely shocking, but the subjects are.) He stares at the word as if enough attention will twist it into something else, and he tries to digest the implications. He is attractive, naturally, but the thought that Ryou thinks that makes Bakura's stomach feel strange.

He reads on, more enraptured than ever.

I mean, it's not like I'm terribly subtle about it. I try to be, of course, and I always keep my mouth shut. I never say anything to him unless I think he wants to hear it, and he definitely doesn't want to hear my feelings. I shouldn't have these feelings, anyway. I feel like my own head's against me. There's Stockholm Syndrome and then there's just... ugh. It's wrong. He's me. But isn't? And even if it wasn't wrong, he hates me. I need to stop staring. I need to stop daydreaming. I need to stop coming back to him, over and over again, lingering too long with every little touch...

Bakura drops the book into the mattress, crossing his arms and glaring down at it. He doesn't know what that syndrome is, and he isn't quite sure what feelings are being referred to, but he's definitely getting anxious about it. There's something very wrong about this whole situation. Is it arrogant that he assumes Ryou is referring to staring at him? Not that Bakura has ever minded being arrogant...

And of course Ryou has to come back to him. Ryou's his light, his other half, and his possession. That's just the way it is. The thought of Ryou trying to interfere with that puts ice in Bakura's veins, and he finds himself scowling down at the diary as it goes on. He's stopped reading it in his own voice; he hears Ryou's rich, quiet, lilting accent in his head, too soft and too feminine for any boy that Bakura's attached to.

I need to give up.

That's the end of the page. Bakura wrinkles his nose at it; what a blunt and nonsensical way to end a perfectly interesting piece of dirt. Bakura scrawls, 'naturally,' below the last line and flips a few pages forward. His eye catches snippets as he goes—everything along the same vein. Either, 'he hurt me again,' or 'I hate myself,' or even, 'I don't know how my heart takes this.'

"Pitiful," Bakura mumbles aloud to himself. He would have to get the weakest person born in five thousand years for a hikari...

The next page:

Dear Diary,

I don't know what to do. I ran into Yami and Yugi today, smiling and holding hands, and seeing them so happy just made me so... ugh. I know they're friends, and I should wish them happiness, but I... I... I'm so... jealous.

"Jealous?" Bakura picks the diary up again and holds it closer to his face. As much fun as this is, the trouble with written confessions is that they can't be cross-examined, which Bakura very much wants to do. His hikari's jealous of that idiot?

Well, Bakura reasons, that's probably only natural. The pharaoh doesn't hurt his hikari. Naturally, Ryou would be jealous of Yugi's safety.

Only, safety doesn't seem to be what Ryou's talking about.

Why does he get to be complete like that? Ryou's handwriting goes on, getting slightly shakier and messier as it goes, and the imaginary voice in Bakura's mind trembles with it. Why does he get to be with someone so beautiful and warm, while I have to stare at my own gorgeous counterpart every day, longing for what I can't have? It's like Ra's torturing me for all my ancient sins—I have to share a home and a mind with an incredibly handsome other half, stalking around the house with that predatory, sexy look on his face...

Bakura doesn't just stop reading immediately. He tosses the book jerkily at the far wall as though he's been burned. Then he stares at his hands like they're covered in dirt. What. What? That's the secret? That Ryou... that Ryou finds him handsome?

Since when does he stalk around the house with a sexy look on his face? Bakura verbally mutters, "What the hell...?" He glances sideways at the upended object. It's lying open on the floor, looking oh so innocent. Just like Ryou. Except that it's full of lies, apparently also like Ryou...

In fact, Ryou's so innocent and cute and sweet that Bakura never even considered him having a sex drive before—he just assumed his hikari was asexual. Or pure-as-the-driven sand, completely untainted by such thoughts. He's barely eighteen; isn't that late to start?

Apparently, he was complete wrong. Bakura even rubs his eyes in disbelief—maybe when he opens them again, things will be normal.

When he reopens them, he slips off the bed, bouncing down to his knees to read again. It's on a new page, and he picks a random paragraph, reading:

I think I might be a masochist. I never enjoy it when he hurts me. But yesterday he shoved me against the wall and the contact made me shiver, and when he flipped be around and glared into my eyes, my chest burned. He told me I'm useless, that I'm not good for anything, that I don't do anything for him... I wanted to sink to my knees and worship him, but he probably would've skinned me alive. ...And I've never even been kissed before; I'd probably be terrible at... at other things, even if I... I'd like to try... with him...

Bakura's eyes are now wide as saucers, and he hurriedly flips to the final page, quickly adding up just how many pages there are dedicated entirely to him. Ryou wants to...? He must be reading that wrong. Must be some modern implication he doesn't understand. He does like being worshipped, though, and Ryou does look absolutely adorable on his knees...

Bakura shakes his head. The diary's getting to him. He did not just think that.

The last page that's filled out is written very shakily, and Bakura can just picture his trembling hikari cowering in a corner, probably locked inside the bathroom, breathing hard and nearly sobbing. He looks the prettiest when he cries—Bakura hates himself for thinking that. The red marker is somewhere forgotten on the bed—more important things have taken over.

Like the fact that he's using words like 'adorable' and 'prettiest' to describe his worthless, good-for-nothing excuse for a second half. Still, he drinks in the final entry hungrily, holding the book right up to his face.

Dear Diary,

I can't take it anymore. I'm going mad. Every time he touches me or I look too long, I think he'll catch me—he'll split me in half or he'll chop me to pieces... the fear is eating me up inside—I just want to get it all over with.

I have to tell him. I need to tell him. I know he won't say what I want him to say. He won't love me back—

Love. "Love." Bakura repeats the word incredulously, unable to believe his eyes. Love. His hikari... Ryou... Ryou actually... loves him?

Ridiculous. This is utterly ridiculous. Things are racing through Bakura's head—how sneaky his little light has been for hiding this from him, how much Ryou will need to be punished, how much time Bakura's wasted not being worshipped like he could've been... not that he wants to. Love, honestly... His dead heart is pulsing so rapidly in his chest that the blue ink is starting to look red—Ryou's insanity must be infectious.

...but even if he doesn't love me, he can have me, and maybe he'll use me, and that just might be enough. I want him so badly, I'll take anything. Maybe he'll even learn to care about me, in some small, strange, twisted away, over time... I just want him to touch me, with his mouth instead of his claws. I'd give anything for one kiss, and I don't care how many beatings I'd get afterwards. I know he thinks I'm weak and pathetic, and I am, but I can still take whatever he gives me. I'll always be his, anyway, and... someday I'd like to think of him as mine.

The words run out just as the door opens in the background—the distant creaking hits the back of Bakura's head like a whip. He immediately shoots to his feet and kicks the diary under the bed, before wondering what the hell is wrong with him—he's not the one that should be embarrassed.

He straightens out and jerkily forms fists at his sides, mind still a mess and not made up. He's just gained a wealth of information, and he doesn't even know what to do with it.

He steps over to the bed and pulls the diary back out with his foot, looking up when the bedroom door opens.

Ryou's chocolate eyes blink innocently at him, muttering the usual shy, "Hello." Then Ryou glances at the floor, notices the diary, and turns very, very red. His pale cheeks glow and his pink lips fall open, eyebrows knitting together and body starting to tremble. Ryou backs into the closed door like he's about to fall over.

Bakura stalks towards him, slams him against the wood, and slams their mouths together hard enough to bruise.