Here's to me trying to get back into the fandom. I've wanted to write one those angsty, hilarious fics for a while. As you can tell by the title this is going to be pathetic—and OOC, of course, just for the hell of making Bakura's life harder.

Warning: This fic is not Ryou-happy. He doesn't have that sad past he did, and he won't play a very major role (or a good role) anyway.

Edit: Beta'd by Trempush! Praise her for she has opened a new light in my eyes, or something. Hearts hearts hearts (this site needs to support emoticons).

When I threw up onto the silver-platted toilet rim that morning, I realized that this was it. This was what I had coming to me, what should have happened earlier before I decided to let Ryou into my pathetic little shackles, before I ever opened my first fan letter, before I auditioned for that first movie; before I signed the contract. Sold my soul, sealed my fate, was too damn naïve to realize the difference.

I had it coming. Ryou was on my doorstep that day—a lowly fan, another number, someone else who spoke their words of love and admiration and did nothing to help me expand my career; if they did, I could have upgraded to a house, or a floor at least. I'll admit, that doorstep wasn't mine. The owner of it wasn't there at the moment, so, drawn by that shiny silver necklace on his neck, I opened the door wide. I didn't invite him in, but I gave him a chance.

He didn't take it—not at first. We had a small, boring conversation, an exchange of unnecessary, pleasant words. Maybe it was my image, the fact that I had to keep this artificial smile plastered to my face so that the media won't ruin the chance of the next director even sparing a glance at my audition tape, maybe it was the golden ring and its duplicates on all five of his fingers. Either way, I'd let him in, given him a tour of the first and second floors I had no rights to. It was a nice house—not one you'd expect an upcoming movie star to have, but in any case I was better off showing him this than that tiny bedroom in the basement. The basement I didn't have the keys to. I hope I remembered to push that little stool between the cracks before answering the door.

His long, white hair swished as he turned, revealing a single crystal earring. His pale fingers, nails painted gold, reached to brush a few stray strands out of his big, brown eyes. The smile on his lips reflected in his eyes, and in an instant I could recognize that look—it brought my memory back to the streets, where those stupid men and women put their trusting gazes on this poor young orphan…

Maybe it was his face, the way he showed off all his money—but at that moment and for the rest of two years I spent with him, I thought Ryou was stupid. Gullible. Easy. It was night time when he finally opted to leave, sorry for bothering—I smiled and gave him my cell phone number. I smiled goodbye close to his cheeks, gave him the feeling of that imaginary kiss, the hint of what was to come—and he clutched that little sheet of paper, skin as white as it as he walked off dazedly.

I'd smirked and I'd thought, oh yes.

Then I'd skipped down to my pathetic little futon in that pathetic little basement room and giggled myself to sleep. I left my cell phone on and happily gave myself radiation all night, feeling its electronic heat against the naked skin of my chest. I haven't slept without a top since the first time I found shelter, but that night I'd felt contented enough to go against myself.

Maybe that was the first warning.


It had been a nice relationship. Ryou called me first thing next morning—at the first hour of the morning broke—and his voice had been hushed, frightened, awed. Even though I had just been rudely awakened from my dream of life in a mansion, the 'oh yes' resurfaced once again and I knew I'd scored.

It was during that period when everything was alright; I had just came back from my three-month filming vacation and was waiting for the caster of the new movie call back and be worshipful of my skill and potential. There had been nothing else to do in the mean time, so I'd arranged a dinner for myself and Ryou—gave him all that 'you're special' shit, led him by the hands like he was a feeble baby and he'd enjoyed every moment of it. We'd sat down, me in my sunglasses and drawn up hoodie, him in almost the same thing. Looking like some creepy, almost-famous guy had to be somewhat of a stressor, after all.

Even at that subtle display of intelligence, I still didn't consider Ryou had brains.

It was either that which was the second warning, or the moment the waitress came to take our orders.

"Are you two twins?" she'd asked suddenly, irrelevantly. Back then, it had been a chance for me, an opening. I'd pulled Ryou into an embrace across the table—covered his silent gasp with my next words, given the waitress a charming smile.

"We're lovers," I'd told her. Ryou froze in my arms.

The waitress gave no reaction, absorbing this unnecessary information before taking our orders and leaving. Ryou was gaping like a fish from across the table, and sadly to me it had done nothing to prove his brainpower. I should've known, though. It should've been clear to me when his lips twitched into a shy smile on his round face and glimmering eyes—yet, there was no red hue on his cheeks.

"W-was that a joke," he'd breathed, "B-Baku—Bakura-san…?"

The stutters were all in the wrong place—I really should've observed closer and realized then. However, this whole scene inflated my ego, and I blinded myself to everything but the jewelery he had all over him. I'd probably became deaf, too, to everything but the way they clanked heavily against each other, the glass cup, or when Ryou's fingers brushed against any hard surface.

The bells were ringing red everywhere around me, but they weren't gold or silver or worth any expensive value. I couldn't see them, couldn't hear them.

I'd flashed Ryou a charming smile.

Unknowingly to me, to my ego-blinded senses—he'd flashed me one back.


That was the beginning of two years ago I'd proclaimed safety to. I've just gotten back from filming my fourth movie (and I hope this one would sell for once—I've got an apartment now, but damn I want a house).

Nothing has really changed besides the living arrangements. Ryou was still the one who bought me this suite after learning of my financial status, the one who was stupid and willing and bottom in bed, and I was still (sadly) not that famous. The reason Ryou wanted this relationship in the first place, or so he'd told me, was that he thought I was perfection. Hilarious, but a good boost to my ego.

Coming home into his welcoming arms, I never thought I'd have to prove him wrong.

It was after the interview, the showing and talk of the cast and all that, where I'd felt my first brain-shattering moment of soberness and asked for an aspirin. Maybe it was the aspirin, maybe it was the food beforehand. Most possibly it was the person who'd given it to me. Yami, Yugi, whatever his name was—he was a co-star I didn't like, in which this was mutually returned, but my head was pounding and it felt good to ask and immediately receive so I thought nothing of it. I took the aspirin dry, but drank the offered water anyway for good measure, hoping it'd help with my headache.

Was it revenge? It was part of the movie after all, with instructions from the director. I got to break that bastard's face on set, with the camera rolling, and if it wasn't for acting it would've been a pretty amazing situation. I missed his nose at the last millimetre—of course, though unfortunate—but it was a very believable performance. I didn't get his nose, but I got his eye.

Ryou was the one who noticed the first symptom.

My chest muscles were constricting uncomfortably, you see—it was like going through puberty all over again—and I was rubbing at them.

At first, Ryou thought I was molesting myself (he had no idea what I was below). Then, seeing the pain I tried not to show on my face, his expression turned from disgusted (or vaguely aroused) to worried.

"Bakura?" He asked, inching towards me in worry, "are you okay?"

Fuck no I wasn't okay. But at that time, still in that unsuspecting state of mind, I'd told the both of us that I was fine indeed. And I truly thought I was—not that I'd tell him anything different if I thought otherwise—until the second symptom showed.

The chest pains I could ignore. I was used to having random pains all over the place—must be a side effect of having been beaten up so many times earlier in life—but not this.

I made sure Ryou never saw shit of this symptom. It was horrifying, terrifying, disgusting and impossible.

There was, for the first time since birth, a thin, minuscule layer of fat, stretched over the toned muscles of my stomach.

I remember screaming. I may have cried, being the man I was, with my long hair and heavy lashes, but it was whole and real and horrifying. It was a beer belly, I'd immediately thought, this flap of pure fat on me. What would Ryou—wait, no, that was it. Ryou was spoiling me with those half meals per day he served. I'll have to tell him to cut it down to a quarter...

"But make sure you add some vegetables in compensation for the extra loss." I thought harder and came to a conclusion. "Broccoli, to be exact."

Ryou's face looked devastated when I told him of the news.

"But—Bakura, you're a carnivore," he exclaimed dramatically. Stupid hypocritical bitch, I'd thought. He had always wanted some greens in my diet, and now he's freaking out like it's the worst thing possible that I've finally agreed? Fuck this shit. I'm already getting a headache.

I got a whole lot of headaches after that. I have smashed all my beer bottles and pour their sinfully amazing liquids down the drain in fear of my stomach expanding any more, which it did—in result I've stayed sober longer than I have when I was twelve. I woke up everyday feeling like I had a hangover, whether mild or not, and in the afternoons and nights the frequency of them had both Ryou and myself suspicious.

"Bakura—" Ryou started, but I cut him off.

"I need to piss," I dismissed, waving him off as I went to the bathroom to do exactly that and ignoring his cry of 'Again?!'. It wasn't just for shutting him up; I really needed to urinate.

As I sat on the toilet seat to crap after doing my business, I felt my stomach twist. Ow shit, I thought, then thought so again with more alarm when bile rose up my throat.

I don't think there was crap hanging out of my ass, I don't think... All I remember was this horrible burning as I retched into the toilet bowl, face to face with the swimming brown, unwanted tears stinging the corners of my eyes.

Humiliation. Complete, utter humiliation. I could remember Ryou's worried voice, the door opening—and maybe there was crap hanging out my ass after all.

Sweet, stupid little Ryou said 'eww', then closed the door on me.


I had no idea when the warnings elevated into actual crisis, but obviously I'd missed whenever that was because Ryou had not once greeted me with a worshipful suffix over breakfast.

He still cooked it though, like the stupid little housewife he was, so I thought nothing of it and proceeded to eat those three cloves of broccoli I had on my plate. They were cold, hard, and there were still speckles of ice on them—just the way I liked it, I found. This did mean Ryou wasn't spending his unworthy life on making me a good meal, but he'd taken it out of the fridge and put it on a plate at least, instead of just pointing to me where the bag was in the freezer. I still thought there was nothing wrong.


Ryou continued prodding around the kitchen, finding material for his own meal. He never once looked at me as he gave a vague sound of acknowledgement that I had spoken to him.


That little bitch.

"What do you think of a nice, romantic dinner tonight?" I flashed him a smile, forcing my muscles to keep it that way until he turned to look at me.

Look at me damnit! I snarled in my head, the corners of my lips twitching. He finally paused his insignificant activities, but only for a second—he didn't even stop fully to think of the answer.

"Can't," he said offhandedly.

I was dumbfounded. Rich but lowly Ryou, another face in midst of the millions of other fans (or at least, I hoped for millions), rejecting my invitation? Why? Why do you do this to me, Ryou, how?

"I'll be paying this time," I offered.

Hopelessly, it seemed, because his next reply had nothing to do with my low funds.

"You're gaining weight, Bakura," he started, "you don't want to be seen by the public like that, do you?"

Immediately my mind translated this as I don't want to be seen by the public with you, fatass, and I gaped openly. Ryou continued preparing his chicken and beef lasagna—laying mozzarella over cheddar over parmesan, over butter. What the fuck.

"We're going out tonight and that's final," I snarled, my hands shaking around the fork. Was that rust I saw on its handle?

Ryou stopped preparing his fatty meal and turned to regard me from the bottom of his peripheral vision. The fuck, that little bitch, he didn't even bother tilting his head—!

"Bakura," he snapped—and why was his fork so clean and shiny—"you're acting like a pregnant woman."



"I'll show you a pregnant woman," I hissed, "I'll throw up on your face and stick my fat stomach into your face and you'll see—"

And I saw. I finally saw the truth.

I gasped in horror, backed down. Then I fled the kitchen.

Ryou definitely wasn't laughing behind my retreating form, but he definitely wasn't chasing after me either. In fact, running out of our apartment suite, I heard the sound of the stove turning back on through the frail wooden doors.

The numbers 713 stared down at me, shining a rusty gold from its high place on the door.

I thought to myself, no wonder the bad number is longer than the good.


Confusing? Of course. I even stuck the little bold tbc there to make everything seem more surreal. And Marik. Poor neglected psycho will come later.

First time writing first person, hope it worked out. There has to be a hundred mistakes here, I know.