Okay, this is my first ever BakuraxYami, so it might bea little...weird. R&E!




The eerily grating sound of a whetstone emanated from a dark shadow in this kitchen of a run-down house on the outskirts of Domino City. There was a spark every now and then as the stone struck the steel blade of the scimitar at an odd angle, but the worker hardly seemed to notice. His mind was focused on only one thing.


His ears pricked up a little as he heard his hikari, tossing and turning in his sleep in the room above. His look-alike didn't know what he was about to do; that was all for the better, because, weak though he may be, his hikari was still useful to him, and he didn't want to have to kill him.

He set aside the whetstone, carefully broke off a strand of his own hair, and let it drop. It drifted lazily downward—and was split instantly in two the second it touched the edge of the scimitar.

He hefted the scimitar up by the hilt, holding it at chest level, point out. It glimmered wickedly in the dim light. In the flickering, he saw one thing.


A smirk crept across his face. Amber eyes gleamed with unveiled malevolence and sadistic glee. Bloodlust pounded in his ears, hazing his vision.

It was time for the pharaoh to die.

And, after five thousand years of waiting, he—Bakura—would be the one to orchestrate his death.

Yami moaned softly, attempting to roll over onto his stomach—and was shocked to find that he couldn't. Startled crimson eyes snapped open—and stared straight up into merciless amber ones.

"Hello, Pharaoh." Yami felt cold steel pressed hard against his neck. "Any last words before I slit your throat?"

Yami tried to move his arms, but it was impossible. His legs wouldn't respond, either. In fact, the only part of his body he could move was his head. Bakura sat straddled across his chest. "What have you done to me?"

Bakura smirked. "Oh, nothing—just pinned you to your bed with the shadows!"

Yami tilted his head, careful not to cut himself on the sharp blade of the scimitar. Sure enough, purple-black shadows roiled across his body. The shadows also covered the walls; it would be no use shouting for help, if Bakura had soundproofed them.

Bakura sniggered. "Such irony! The very power you used to control is now contributing to your death!"

Yami didn't reply. He simply stared defiantly up into Bakura's eyes.

Bakura pressed the scimitar's blade a little harder into Yami's throat, watching with insane delight as droplets of blood rolled down his neck. "How the mighty have fallen!" he taunted. "You've escaped every one of my traps for years—you've given the impression of invincibility!" He pressed even harder, and the drops of blood turned into a trickle. "You are nothing! You do not rule! I can kill you—I will kill you!"

Yami just looked scornfully up at him. "Then why don't you just do it now and save yourself some breath?"

That caught Bakura off guard. He just sat there for a minute, staring. "Hunh?"

Yami sighed tiredly. "If you're going to kill me, do it now. You were most likely going to do so eventually."

Bakura stared at him, mouth working. "But—but—" He growled. "Dammit, pharaoh, you're supposed to be afraid! Where's the fun in killing you if you don't beg for your life!"

"What's the point in begging for life, if death is inevitable?" Yami asked softly, his voice slow and sad. "Of course I'm afraid—I am, after all, a human being. It's only natural to fear death. Acceptance is the hard part…but I accept that, eventually, I'll die—and if it's to be at your hands, then so be it."

"You're supposed to be suffering, damn it!"

Yami continued to look calmly up at him. "Who says I'm not?" His voice was still slow and sad, but now it was tinged with grief and pain. "I do suffer, Bakura—for my hikari. He'll be heartbroken. I know that my final test is to look upon Yuugi's reactions—and if I cannot contain myself, I shall never be allowed into the afterlife. I know how much he'll suffer…and that's what makes me suffer."

Bakura stared at him for a moment longer, and then slid of the bed. "Goddamn pharaoh always has to be so Goddamn noble," he grumbled, snapping his fingers. The shadows pinning Yami to the bed faded into nothingness.

Yami sat up, pressing a hand against the small cut on his neck to staunch the flow. "Bakura—what—"

Bakura grinned at him. "Trust me—this isn't over." He turned and sprang out the open window.

Yami dashed over and leaned out the window, watching the tomb robber disappear around the corner of the house, nimbly balanced on the gutter. His heart gave a strange, heavy flutter.

As Bakura disappeared from sight, Yami felt something disappear form his mind—the hatred he felt towards Bakura. The thief still knew honor—respect, even.

It's not his fault he's like that, Yami thought to himself, smiling a little. Fate molded him in the form of a hard-hearted tomb robber—and there's nothing anyone can do about it.

His heart gave another strange flutter as he closed the window. No one can do anything for him…oh, Bakura…

Suddenly, the door to his room slammed open. Someone ran at him from behind.

My God—the front door was unlocked—

Before Yami could react, pain exploded in his back, lancing through his body. He stared almost blankly down at the scimitar's blade, which protruded from between his ribs.

"I told you this wasn't over," Bakura's taunting voice whispered in his ear. He let go of the scimitar's handle, and Yami collapsed forward against the wall. The front and back of his black night shirt were blossoming with dark red stains. His knees were shaking.

"W-Why, Bakura?" he whispered sadly.

Bakura laughed scornfully. "You know very well why!" He twisted Yami around so that they were face-to-face, and then slammed him backwards against the wall, driving the scimitar even further into his body. "I—hate—you!" he snarled, eyes hard with fury.

Yami smiled weakly. "I guess hate…is strongest…this time…" He let out a hacking cough. Dark liquid poured out of his mouth.

"What are you talking about?" Bakura growled.

Yami's eyes were beginning to glaze over as he looked back up at Bakura. "How ironic…" he said quietly, smiling a little. His voice was fainter, as if it was a great effort to speak. "I…I can't hate you…not now…and never again…"

"Spit it out, damn it!" Bakura snapped.

Yami's breathing was faint and shallow, as he fixed his swiftly-dimming crimson gaze on Bakura. "I…l-love…"

He heaved a shuddering gasp, and his legs gave out beneath him. He sank to the floor. "No," he whispered. "I w-want…t-to live…"

As Bakura watched him, he got the shock of his life. Yami was crying. Not bawling like a little kid—but crying all the same.

It was at that second Bakura realized that this was much too far over his head. He didn't want this. This wasn't what he'd strived for. He thought he'd wanted the pharaoh dead—but human beings have the tendency to choose for themselves the things which they need the least. And Bakura was just finding this out—the hard way.

Yami looked up one last time, his gaze full of sorrow and regret—and, strangely, forgiveness.

That was the last straw. Bakura knew what to do, even if he didn't know exactly how to do it. He shouted three words in ancient Egyptian, grabbed the hilt of the scimitar, and pulled—

The scimitar came out with a wet slurp, and Bakura stumbled backwards at the force. He watched in a sick sort of wonder as the gaping wound in Yami's back closed, knitting itself together, until all that remained was a long, pale scar.

Bakura lifted a hand to his forehead. In ancient Egypt, he had read of a spell that would heal anyone, even if they were on the brink of death. He had learned it, of course—but it was the first time he'd ever used it.

He knelt down, almost afraid of what he might find. Because of the nature of the spell, the scimitar wounds had been healed—but that was no guarantee that Yami was still alive.

Gods, let him be all right!

Bakura reached out and pressed his fingers lightly against the inside of Yami's wrist. There was no pulse—not even a very faint one.


"No," Bakura cried. "By the gods, no! Ra damn it, pharaoh—if you die on me, I swear I'll bring you back just so I can kill you again my damn self!" His voice broke.

There was still no response; then again, Bakura hadn't expected one. He buried his head in his hands. "What have I done?" he whispered.

A weak chuckle reached his ears. "You've saved my life, for one."

Bakura nearly jumped out of his skin. He looked at Yami, and saw that his eyes were open, and he was struggling to sit up.

"Easy there, you highness-ness," Bakura said quickly. "You've lost a lot of blood."

"You think?" Yami asked dryly. His sarcasm made Bakura wince.

He stood up, and helped Yami onto the bed. "Well, if you're all right for now—" He turned to go back out the door.


Bakura looked at him. "Yeah?"

Yami was looking at him with an expression that was half curiosity, half apprehension. "Why?" he asked simply.

Bakura stared at him for a moment. He didn't know how to respond—but he couldn't look away from those hypnotizing crimson orbs. They told him to tell the truth—but he had no words.

Suddenly, he knew. Without making a sound, he sat down next to Yami and lip-locked him.

When he finally pulled away, Yami was staring at him with a mixture of shock and surprise on his face. "That's why," he said quietly.

Yami shook his head a little. "Bakura…I thought…"

Bakura grinned a little. "Think again."

Yami looked around a little. "Is there any way you could just 'poof up' some water?" he asked.

Bakura's grin widened. Two seconds later, there was a bottle of water in his hand, fresh out of the fridge downstairs.

"Arigatou," Yami murmured, reaching for it—and was a bit surprised when Bakura continued to hold it out of his reach. "Bakura!"

Bakura shrugged nonchalantly, twisting off the cap. "Hey, I'm thirsty, too!" He took a few gulps of water.

"Now can I have some?" Yami asked exasperatedly.

Bakura grinned. "I'm getting there." He poured a little more water in his mouth—and the leaned over and lip-locked Yami again, transferring the water in that form.

"Still thirsty?" he breathed, pulling back slightly.

Yami set the water bottle on the bed stand. "Mmm."

"I'll take that as a 'yes'."


Ehehe...told ya. Review, please?