Pairings: Bakura x Ryou, Ryou x Ryou
Genre: Dark
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Masturbation, narcissism
Diclaimer: I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh! or any of the characters, and this piece of fanfiction is for the sole purpose of entertainment.
Summary: Ryou has always wondered what it would be like if there were two of him, and in Bakura, he found his mirror boy.
A/N: A different take on how Ryou discovered Bakura.

Mirror Boy

No one knows of Bakura. He makes sure of this, achingly sure—all for one reason.

He likes to think that Bakura is his dirty little secret.

As with all little secrets, it must be tucked away in a tiny crevasse and never spoken of, only fawned over, like the precious toy that it is. Of course, he does that as much as conceivably possible. It is the only true reason he even bothers with everything; every tiresome, trivial thing.

All for him.

Like the other little secrets that popped up in his life, this one came unexpected. It filled another one of the many voids in his incomplete—or perhaps shattered, he never was quite sure—life, but this was far from just a hole, like the others. This was the swirling vortex in which his deepest fears and thoughts intermingled, where he lost sense of himself and he was no longer him; rather, he became another: someone beautiful, someone lost, and someone so very twisted.

Bakura knew this and exploited it for all that he was worth. Though, now he isn't sure whether he was ever worth that much to begin with.

He clings to him, because Bakura made things possible. Opportunities had never been displayed to him, but then suddenly, he was staring out at a field of them, carefully cultivated and stalking skywards in orderly rows—just like the cornfields he used to dream of as a child. Dreams of golden sweetness and pale sunlight, and something he never had.

But it seems with Bakura, he comes all that much closer to attaining that something.

When he was younger, he often wondered what it would be like if there were two of him. A set of two, perfectly crafted out of the same mold. At first, he wondered what it would be like to be a twin, as the idea fascinated him. Papa, when I grow up, will I be a twin? His father never did answer his question; rather, he chuckled and stroked his hair, saying something about not wishing for the impossible. He had not understood what his dearest Papa had meant at the time, so he disregarded it. Instead, his mind clung to those farfetched musings and he waited for the day when he would become a twin.

As he grew, he realized that his childhood delusions were, of course, impossible to accomplish. But still, the obsession with replicas of himself remained, untainted by the realization that maturation often brings with it. For years it stayed a constant idle thought on his mind, something to entertain himself with when he felt the canvass of boredom drape over him.

Then, one sultry summer eve, it transmuted into something much, much more.

The new arrangement of his bedroom left the dresser directly perpendicular to his bed. And lying upon the soft, welcoming, and lovingly worn comforter, he could catch his own reflection in the large mirror that topped the wooden structure. The image of a short, somewhat ungainly boy peered back at him from atop a mountain of plush pillows, hair covering his face and somehow so incredibly mysterious—and he was captivated, simple as that.

The boy in the mirror was another being, just as awkward and shy as himself, but also something infinitely more. His little smile told of ancient secrets and his shielded eyes sang of sordid desires. And something so dark and delicious was coiled up inside him, clawing with bladed fingers to create the perfect fissure from which to spill forth. He was seductive and innocent and he wanted him so badly he ached all over, just from that ambiguous smile.

He fell in love with the boy in the mirror, night after night gazing at him in the flickering shadows as they both writhed in ecstasy. Their hair splayed across respective pillows like receding mist, parting for the rush of blood soaked skin and heavy breaths—and they were one, and something indescribably more. When he came, he watched as his distant lover arched up into his hand, fresh—supple, slim, tight—thighs trembling and young body breaking apart at the seams. He was so beautiful, he couldn't stand it.

Then Bakura sauntered into his life.

Instantly, his mirror boy took flesh, and all the fantasies he had ever harbored of slender fingers—pianist's fingers—and woozy kisses came to heated life. Bakura's touch was just as he imagined, his lips even sweeter, and his words forever sealed between secretive lips. His missing twin. His lover knew that he made him fall, fall so gloriously as humankind had fallen, his apple being the pale flesh beneath his fingertips. Everything he'd ever wanted became his in those treasured moments, and it was then that he knew he was not himself.

He'd give anything just to keep his mirror boy from disappearing. Anything, from diamonds to hard cash to the slick flesh from his flank, (and oh god­) he needed him so badly.

So he keeps Bakura hidden away like the treasure he is, afraid he will dissipate into thin air if left unsupervised—back into that world of reflections and ripples, a lifetime away. Afraid that the mirror will keep him captive once more, inaccessible but for his half smiles and fathomless eyes.

A fate he doesn't think he can bear.

He tells Bakura of his fears and that he is his dirty little secret, and his lover merely smiles in that dark manner of his before silencing his words with a subtle kiss.