Title: Perfect

Summary: Bakura's spooning Marik after some wild sex. What's he thinking?

Rating: T, because sex is mentioned, but it's not graphic or anything.

Note: I believe this takes place the night of Yugi's duel with Possessed Jounouchi on the pier. Bakura wasn't there, so he doesn't know what happened.

Other Note: I think LK had it right when he said Yami Bakura's secretly very lonely. I mean, his whole village was slaughtered, leaving him the only survivor. The only significant interactions he's had with other characters were with Marik and Akunadin, both of them deals to cooperate in "destroying the world". Of course he's lonely.

I couldn't find a title for this drabble, so I just kind of went with the running theme. I HAVE read part of a Deathshipping (I think) story of the same name, but I think it fits. PLEASE review, it would mean so much. I won the Language Arts award at school this year (yay), but I still need a lot of work on everything.

Also, can anyone tell me what 'angst' is? Give me some examples? Fanks.

Enjoy!

You shift against me, and my breathing halts. I'm afraid you'll leave, and I just don't want to be alone again.

You settle back down, sinking into the sheets, and my chest starts moving in time with yours. We're synchronized. That should mean something, right? Maybe that's another thing I can add to the list. The list of reasons I'll use to convince you that we're fit for each other. But I know you'll never agree. I'm still not sure how I managed to convince myself.

Your body fits so nicely against mine, not even aided by the cushion of clothing. That's another reason. We're the perfect match.

Ha. I imagine you smiling and laughing if I said that to you, it's such a hilarious proposition. Actually, I've never witnessed you do either of those before. There's isn't much for you to smile about, is there?

I've never been called that word, perfect, though I know I've applied it to you a thousand times in my head. Hell, you look it now, in the undisturbed pretense of sleep we're both putting up. We're two of the most imperfect people on this planet, I'm sure.

But maybe for now, when your breathing matches mine, and we fit together like puzzle pieces, I can pretend. I can pretend like I might have pretended in those few years I got to be a child.

It's not like I'm unaccustomed to the art of acting, nor are you. We have other appearances to keep up during the day, ones that are not as easily manageable as the sleep we're both faking, with the dark on our side. These wear me out, though, as I assume they do you. Sometimes I get frustrated.

And I'm grateful to have anyone to take this frustration out on, in the dark when everyone else is dreaming. Sometimes I'm on top of you, marvelling at the sight of all your golden glory writhe below me. Marvelling at the heat you bring me, as if you brought the scorching sun of your homeland and turned my heart into something that wasn't made of cold shadows.

But sometimes, when you've had a particularly bad day, you're the one on top of me, inside of me. Maybe one day I'll tell you I like this better, because it makes me feel whole again, like nothing's missing. And I think you prefer it also. Because it gives you control, something you'd never had until you stole the rod whose power was to do just that. Because you're addicted to it now.

See, we even have corresponding preferences in bed. That's a very good reason to stay with you. Not that I would ever willingly leave.

As it so happens, today was a particularly bad day. You lost another game, I presume, though I didn't have enough time to ask. My mouth was doing other things. It seems like you've been losing a lot of them lately. But I have faith in you. If I hadn't, I wouldn't have agreed on this deal. But it's not like I can back out now. I'm too invested. Perhaps you are too, as we both have equal benefit on the line. It's something others would call a 'you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours' sort of situation, but I'm confident yours has already been scratched quite enough.

Every night, I keep expecting you to get up and leave, each time you move around. I expect to hear you creep across the room, not see, because I always pretend to be asleep, to hear the door shut, and to be left alone, like I've been for centuries. I'll just be nothing again, just some old soul in a torn-up house, with the growl of your bike haunting my ears. I once had my own ride, I remember. He was a stallion.

Yes, today was a particularly bad day, but it ended how all of our bad days have ended lately. With sex. Good sex. Good enough to somewhat neutralize the devastating loss you suffered, and maybe even push the day's rating into the green. Or maybe that's just what I think.

Good sex doesn't equal perfect sex, you and I both know. Perfect sex happens on a bed of rose petals that are jostled slightly with the undulations of love-making. But tonight was far from that. This old house has crumbling walls and broken light bulbs, and it smells musty, as if the only residents have been ghosts for a while, including us. And I can hardly call what we did 'love-making'. It must have been a terrible duel for you to tackle me so harshly, causing me to hit my head on a table leg. And then when you plunged inside me unexpectedly, I swear I felt myself tearing. In a good way, though. Not like the way they ravaged my town, or the way the rest of my existence has fallen apart. And besides, you and I both have known pain worse than a little bleeding. I once had a scar too, you know. Maybe I'll tell you that one day.

Yet, no matter who dominates, or how violent it gets, we always end up in the same position, the one we're in now. Your back is pressed to my chest, and my face is buried in your hair, where it smells the sweetest and feels the softest. We're facing the window, so the moon is visible.

Maybe you're just pretending you're young and innocent again, when you look up at the light that gave you hope so many years ago. You told me about living in the tomb, how dark it was there. But I belong underground too. Though my spirit was set on higher sights, my body was buried centuries ago. That's another thing we have in common. It belongs on the list, with all the other bizarre reasons.

Maybe perfection isn't as desirable as I once thought it was. Of course I've never heard you laugh, but I'm content with the sound of your voice, and the way it talks to me even when you're not using your powers. I haven't seen you smile, but the look of bliss on your face earlier in this old bedroom was enough for my eyes. And the perfume of your hair is better than any rose petal I've ever smelled.

We'd be a nice picture, if someone happened to look at us now. A couple cuddled warmly in the blankets, a common position for exhausted lovers. If anybody ever asked, maybe we could play pretend. I'd hide the bruises on my neck, the ones that somehow appeared without any pain. And you'd hide the cuts on your back, now not every single one delivered by your father's knife, but perhaps by my nails when I was clawing for more. Yes, we could pretend for others, and we can pretend for ourselves, but I'll always know the truth behind this position.

With my chest so close to you, my heart is adequately protected. Everything I've loved is gone with the wind, with the fire, with my tears that have long since dried. I tried not to let anything touch it anymore, but it seems I've failed. Now, all I can do is prevent anymore intrusions. And you, pressing into me with the heat of your home, are protecting your back. I know it worries you to have it exposed, when it was just so easy, and still is easy, to stab you there.

I know I'm not known for my integrity, but I won't betray you, Marik.

Perfect is the top a mountain, something we'll never reach thanks to the hole we've dug ourselves into. But for now, maybe we can play pretend.