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I don’t know how this happened. How did this happen?
He must have a fever. He must be dying. The thief Bakura was sure of it. It must be a dream borne of approaching death. A dream.
But I don’t just… dream. When was the last time I didn’t have nightmares instead…?
He couldn’t remember.
Perhaps, though, this was a nightmare, and he simply couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
“Are you alright?”
Bakura felt fingers thread through his hair, and craned his neck to looked up. Without the crown, he could almost forget the identity of the man whose chest he was lying against.
The Pharaoh Atem’s chest was warm.
A fever, surely… he feels warm because of the fever… My body is finally breaking down… somewhere out in the desert, I’m finally dying… and this is some fucked-up fever dream…
“That’s a terrible question, Lord Pharaoh. You know I’m not.”
Atem shifted, seeming uncomfortable. “I meant… I mean… you grew tense, just now…”
“I wonder why.”
“Why?”
Bakura scoffed, but it lacked the ire he wanted it to have. The Pharaoh was soft. “I’m just… gods, how did this happen…?”
“I’m not entirely sure of that, myself…”
The thief Bakura had slunk in through the palace window–dodging the royal guards had been a challenge, certainly, but something he’d proven capable of. He wasn’t sure, when he’d reached the Pharaoh’s chamber, what his plan was. He could likely abscond with the Millennium Pendant with no one being the wiser, but simple theft seemed a waste of a far larger opportunity. So he’d approached the Pharaoh’s bed, and gazed down at the surprisingly young man sleeping there.
The Pharaoh Atem was beautiful, finely groomed and glowing with health even in sleep, and Bakura had felt his blood heat with jealousy–perhaps, too, with fever. The Pharaoh’s crown lay on the table beside his bed.
How did this happen? Bakura asked himself again, as he resettled himself on Atem’s chest, looking away from Atem’s face. The Pharaoh had responded to the intruder in his bed with curiosity and intrigue, rather than hostility, and that had given Bakura reason for pause. The Pharaoh had reached out and traced the scar that ran along the thief’s face, and then placed his hands against Bakura’s chest. Atem smelled of expensive oils, the scent making Bakura’s head spin with envy.
“I thought I was dreaming,” Atem admitted softly, bringing Bakura back to the present. He was stroking Bakura’s hair, seemingly unbothered by it’s filthy state. “A handsome desert rogue appeared in my bed… it seemed quite an unlikely reality.”
The Pharaoh Atem had leaned forward and kissed Bakura, his eyes, still hazy with sleep, sliding shut. And Bakura, assaulted with soft lips and that deplorably privileged, perfumed scent, had fallen upon him in return.
“I don’t know how this happened…” Bakura mumbled again.
As they had torn into one another’s bodies–far more tenderly, more erotically than might be expected–Bakura had gasped out his grievances. He’d told the Pharaoh all the reasons he’d come to the palace, and all the reasons he sought revenge. He’d snarled his hate against the Pharaoh’s soft, sweaty skin, and yet been unable to snap Atem’s slender neck.
Bakura couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in physical contact with another living human. He’d been as starved for touch, it seemed, as for food or shelter from the harsh desert sun, and he couldn’t bare the thought of lying beside a corpse.
“Let me stay… for a while longer…”
“Of course.” Atem seemed slightly surprised, and his hand appeared over Bakura’s; held it, while his other hand continued to stroke the thief’s hair. “You can stay as long as you’d like.”
And Bakura thought that he might stay until he died of that fever that he must have, lying somewhere out in the unforgiving desert. The arms of the Pharaoh wouldn’t be a bad place to die, even though he still couldn’t quite decide if this was a dream or a nightmare.