I do not own Yugioh; so don't sue. Mild shonen ai, so if you're offended, read and the flames will help me write. Mild JouSeto and RyouBakura

Drawing Perspective

There's a boy sitting on a park bench, simple and worn. The peeling paint catches in his skin, his clothes, but it doesn't matter. Not really. There's no difference in the light of his coffee colored eyes, the wind doesn't abate its frantic dance in his moon colored hair. He hugs a few pieces of parchment to his chest, his most precious instruments, rough stubs of charcoal, the end of a pencil and a faintly graying pink slab eraser lie next to him, untroubled by the wind. Passerbyers tend to stare, he's as common a sight and novelty as the chess players, the constantly parked taxis, and the children grasping at autumn leaves fluttering and flinging themselves blindly in the wind. It doesn't matter that they're too awkward to approach him, to lonely to seek companionship they are unsure of, or too unhappy to even notice such a sight. He doesn't hesitate in his actions; he doesn't stop, even if it may seem as futile as the rash king, eternally rolling a boulder up a hillside. A constant pleasant smile is upon his face, slim hands stained with charcoal dust.

Hey brother, look at those leaves! Isn't it a gorgeous day? Bet you didn't expect it to be so nice.

No kidding.

Their hair is the color of the latent rustipped leaves, vibrant and dizzying. He appears to be a flash of silver, an expensive coat rumpling in the wind.

No insults today?

I've decided to save my breath. Hello Shizuka.

Hi.

Don't talk to my sis!

Brother, it's fine. He can talk to me, I really don't mind.

………………………

I'm going to get something to drink. Do you two want anything?

No thank you.

Me neither.

Okay.

It's a like park bench, simply different people. One of the two boy's head is bowed over his skinny knees; he plucks idly at his sleeve. The other has set his briefcase down, and leans idly against the shuttered iron railing. His posture is perfect, and to an observer seems unrelenting, for him, he is relaxed, but he's ready for attack. Tired. The sitting boy steals glances he doesn't think are seen at the second, he thinks that the other looks weightless, yet distinct, a noble but calculating general from long ago, unchangingly set in unweathered stone.

It's a beautiful day.

It is.

A hesitant nod.

Why are you being so polite?

Nice, he wants to say, and catches his breath before he can say charming.

A shrug.

Aren't I allowed to be nice?

I wouldn't know. Pause.

The barest flicker starting in blue eyes.

Of course.

He's tired in this boys presence and yet full of energy. He doesn't understand this feeling of elation and attributes it to the wind rushing past his eardrums. He doesn't know. He truly doesn't know.

The boy looks down, sun warmed lashes dusting coarsely tanned golden skin.

" What don't you like?"

He doesn't sneer and walk away. He doesn't ask 'Why would you need to know?' He doesn't retort about how unlikely it might be if the other would even be capable of understanding his answer. Instead he answers. It's a strange day, a truly strange place that compels him to answer.

"I don't like nosy reporters and inefficient new things, I don't like fancy coffee though I'll drink it anyway, and I don't like secretaries I don't like wanting things I can't have. I don't like it because it shouldn't be possible; I've done everything and will do anything to achieve my goals. If I fail or am confused it's a sign of weakness, I suppose. If you take some things they wilt and die, so its not meant to be. I guess I'm sick of impossibility. It surprises me."

Shadowed amber flecked eyes, shifting, considering. Biting back the questions that could shatter a fragile hope like blown glass. He considers. He wants to ask, don't you dislike me, or do you truly hate me? How could you not, or am I merely beneath your notice? Do you not like me because I'm me?

But he doesn't ask, because he doesn't know.

"Do you not want to want, or are you afraid you won't understand?"

His voice squeaks oddly in his own ears, and he mocks himself silently, and frustrated, berates himself.

He doesn't laugh. He stands so still, he almost doesn't breathe. He's confused and he hates that, he doesn't know and he mentally adds that to the list of things he dislikes.

"Yes," he says aloud, his voice sounding odd, awkward even in his own ears," I don't know. I don't like it.

A grin.

Lips curve into a teasing smile, too much like a smirk for his comfort, too warm for his unhappiness. He almost smiles back, but catches himself, and stooping to grasp his silver briefcase with one thin hand, he turns sharply to leave.

He's cold, almost the cold that burns but isn't frozen, says something he wasn't expecting to say. Something he doesn't understand, but it's almost torn out of him by the wind." I come here often." Abrupt and confusing, he doesn't understand why he said it, almost wishes he hadn't. By that logic, he shouldn't like it. But he does, and he doesn't know. He doesn't know why.

The artist on the bench smiles, intent on his drawing. He looks it over carefully, adding a twist of a leaf in one corner, a smudge in the other, reaching up to look at the fading apple leaves, the frosty blue sky, when he finally looks away from his drawing. It's a curious piece, so he does not rush it. He is too experienced for that. He wants it to turn out well.

" I've been thinking."

Really. Sarcasm, hidden in hard blue steel, mirroring every word.

"If…if you wanted something you couldn't have, would you dislike it simply because it was itself, and you wouldn't change that? But doesn't that contradict itself?" His words are hurried and gasping, he ran desperately here, simply to speak to the other. Those words they spoke, haunt him, and he thinks about them in a way he had only thought a few times before. The boy exhales sharply; he hasn't caught his breathe yet, but he's determined and stubborn, he wants that answer and he'll risk the storm in those eyes to get it.

The other is motionless, tall and deliberate against the pale sky and he doesn't know what to say. He feels loose, feckless, light, and undone, and he puts out a hand on the dark roughness of the nearby tree to steady himself, to stop the other from running away, locking the moment in play. He look down, and realizes. He understands that the boy underneath him is warm even though he shivers with cold through that ratty worn green jacket, and he's cold, so very cold, even though he feels fine, and he wants unattainable warmth. He thinks idly that he could catch the harsh breaths of the other that puff against the cold autumn weather, and the warmth would cling to his skin, even after he pulls away and it disappears, and that he is also very, very confused. He thinks he wants warmth.

It's gentle, and a little odd.

"Some things surprise me."

An involuntary open gesture, nimble fingers sketching lightly in the air, as if the artist holds calligraphy brush. A peaceful smile, a delicate stroke added skillfully upon the page. A red leaf falls onto the parchment, but he doesn't brush it aside.

He walks here often with his sister, leaves tucked into their hair that almost couldn't be noticed because of the similarity in color. He walks there often, his silver briefcase swinging from his hand, a cashmere scarf tucked under his chin. They don't seem to encounter each other often, or at prearranged times. But the leaves are as thin and yellow as the artist's paper, and the pond has long since iced over, traces of bright leaves on its surface now decayed and powdered.

They like to walk by here, and so they sometimes meet the other passing through, now and then, but the bluster and cold affrontery is mostly gone now. The girl is always glad to see the other boy, and he is always unfailingly polite to her, kind, courteous, and inquiring. He is less to the boy, but he teases him more often. The girl likes to think this is a face he shows only her and she rushes to her phone after her brother has brought her home, and flutters about how nice he is and how he normally acts isn't his fault, his past, and how strong and sure he is…The other boy doesn't speak that much, but he watches how the one they meet brings his sister flowers, and sometimes chocolates, but for him only words or silence. But since it's a different kind of silence, he's not sure what to say, but accepts it. He does. But he doesn't know why.

The young artist never leaves his seat; he seems to have an uncanny instinct for knowing where they are. He sketches them, often, but most commonly the solitary one, like a brooding dragon. He draws him in ink, it's a study in patience though it was harder at first, but now it comes naturally, he likes the way the black cross hatching shows depth and darkness or varying lack of. He admires the widening of lines to hint at shadow, and he sketches him constantly. He skims the pen on the parchment; he never draws the other two in ink. He smiles and he sighs and groans in frustration and laughs and buries pale hands in his feathery white mane, but he doesn't give up. Never.

There's snow, now. It covers the ground and blankets the pond, and someday they expect to find the chess players under a heavy coat of snow, diligently playing through the surrounding icy sheet. They still come, laughing and talking and stomping their feet free of the caked snow, so he does as well. They talk, but never long, it's too cold. Sometimes they bring pastries, or small cups of mulled cider and hot chocolate and coffee, but he doesn't; and the girl notices, and tells her brother who brings another cup just for him, and flushes when he's thanked. It's not noticeable, because the lanterns are nearly extinguished, but the other notices. He wonders why.

Hello.

Hi!

Here….

Thanks.

No problem.

It's beautiful, even though there's so much cold weather. I hear it'll be a short winter, though.

Yes, I heard that too.

Come on, sis, we gotta go.

Sure, bye! smile

Goodbye. nod

Sure, whatever. Shrug

They never notice the artist.

The park is thawing and dripping new water now to puddle in the dark earth. The other hasn't seen the two siblings in weeks. He may miss them, but he doesn't know if he does. It's a warm night, the spread of deep blue shot with brilliant gems glorious. He's changed, still clearly cut translucent marble, a purely alive statue; his skin pale as snowy stone. He looks up, through the dimming electric dazzle of lights and he sees the artist. He never did before. He sits down, the paint catches on his clothes, but he doesn't notice. He has never been a great conversationalist, he never had to be, but it really doesn't matter. Not now.

" That drawing…it's of me…"

"Yes. I draw here often. Sometimes I draw the people passing through."

"Not only of me then…them?"

"Yes."

"I see. May I see the drawings?"

He passes the sketches over to him, they've occupied half a year of his time and attention, its time somebody saw the products of his industry.

The drawings are not good. They are wonderful. The pictures are truly beautiful. The artist is a master and a pupil. He knows. He understands, but he doesn't always understand, and he doesn't hate when he doesn't understand, even if he doesn't know why. The artwork is more than lines on a page, more than that simply because he has expressed so much thought and emotion in them, so much that they are alive in their own right, violently alive. And the thought and emotion were completely and totally their own, if not now.

"You've made them…us…beautiful."

"Perhaps."

The girl he draws in light pencil, she's as light as air, as delicate and warm as a bird. The soft greys are muted; he's taken special pains to make a pale clear finish. She smiles from the page with the same smile she greets him with; she flutters in the softness of her growing excitement like an angel. Her skin is gently shaded, her hair silky and wild, her hazel eyes are delighted and welcoming. Her form is attractive, her feet small, her hands ready and slender, and she looks at him, gentle strokes of soft pencil and gestures like a Madonna, her expression clear.

He passes over the drawings of himself, there's much written in the quick strokes of ink but more in the next drawings.

The boy is not as gently or carefully drawn as his sister. He is done in harsher, bold strokes of deep charcoal, the page crumbling a little under the heavy lines, his expression defiant, looking past the watcher. His hair is rich and rough like raw silk, his body done in harder, flatter planes, more alive and warmer for all of it. His golden eyes stare hotly from the paper, they are not confused, he isn't happy, but he doesn't look out sadly. Too fiery to be resigned, too loving to be angry he exists simply on the broad black lines of the artist's soft charcoal sweeps. The parchment suits the technique well, the pages are worn but he looks like a medieval sketch from an illuminated church, the glowing candlelight making him alive and colored inside the page, but unlike the other who appears to be drawn in the tints contained inside the shades of pale grey. His coloring is the parchment and charcoal stick itself. His skin is not as soft as hers, his hands almost rough but richly golden, amber torchlight hidden within his hair, and the artist doesn't need the finish or taste of his pencil drawings to make it true.

"Can I have a drawing?"

"Yes."

………..rustle

" Your welcome."

"Thank you."

The other man leaves the artist. He thinks he knows why now, even if he only knows one answer. He wanted to know all the answers, and isn't sure of that anymore. It surprises him.

The artist smiles serenely, the lantern light making him look divine for a minute. He turns to gather his supplies, and starts to leave, but stops. He can't breathe, he can't move, but he doesn't speak yet because he doesn't know. He doesn't know why.

The stranger, a pale slender ivory scarred man with a burning garnet gaze, the eyes of a demon, once a fanatic but now coolly appraising. He moves efficiently, gracefully, but he's tense. Tired. Bracing for attack.

"Hello."

"Yadoneshi."

The artist's gaze is wary, yet resigned. He gestures gently, laconically, with one pale hand, stained with ink and remnants of charcoal dust. The touch indicates the sweep of the park, the reaching wiry branches of the dark trees, and the growing grass, softened by the wavering lights.

The fanatic watches the angelic artist. He expects something, but he doesn't know the outcome. He's broken in this boy's presence, yet whole, and he knows. He knows why. And he's afraid. The artist turns to walk down the asphalt sidewalk, alone in the dark. The other falls in stride with him. He's surprised. He doesn't betray his surprise, he doesn't have to, most of his actions are an open book to the other, and he waits for whatever will happen next.

This isn't safe. Not really.

"It hasn't been safe for the good six months I've been walking here…Thank you."

What have you been doing here?

"Admiring the view. The leaves are pretty, and it's fairly interesting."

You're carrying your drawing supplies.

"Yes."

Like I said, the view is interesting.

There was this one person…."

Who?

"A boy my age. He has a drawing."

Bought or took?

"Neither. I gave him one. I think he really likes it, but it was already his. He'll take good care of the drawing, but it already served its purpose."

What was it of?

"Just a charcoal sketch."

Ryou………..

"Yes?"

I'm only going to say this once. Only once.

………………

I love you.

…………………

"Oh."

Shut up. You're not normally this unarticulate. It doesn't suit you.

………………

"Where were you?"

Traveling. I was searching. I'm done now.

Silence. Footsteps.

"I love you too."

I hate you.

snarl

smile

"Of course…Bakura.

Owari

The extra pairing was random, but I really love it. Please tell me if I had problems with imagery, pace, etc, or if you just want to talk or something, e-mail me, links in my profile. If you really don't have anything to say, just comment so I know you've read it, or just say hi. This fic is dedicated to kuroi-sakurapetals, who started me reading fandom, so check out her fics. If you know someone who would beta read for me, please tell me.

Ja Ne!