A/N: (5-4-11) Carp, so what to put here? /THIS IS NOT YAOI/. Seriously, This fic was not meant to be yaoi or even hinting at it. But read it any way, I'm very proud of it. I tried to break from my stereotypical fanfiction type style and mixed a little bit of LittleKuriboh's style. Thank you to all my friends who read this while it was in process—and thought I had the fever cuz it wasn't yaoi. Oh, and I'm from Texas, I say things weird, get off my back -_-

Anime: Yu-Gi-Oh! by Takahashi Kazuhi, main characters: Yami Bakura and Ryou Bakura. I don't own.

Takes place a few years prior to the start of season one.

Tanoshimu!

"Not all families are born of seed and blood." – Phédre nό Delaunay

•A Reason To Live •

Heat. Fire. Bodies Tumbling into a pit, scrambling to crawl over one another to escape as skin melts and tears like paper, sinew cauterizing, becoming hard. A wife and a new born son. Death, death and decay, all the colors upon leaving all fade to grey…

Until a flick of effulgent green passes in front of hazy eyes, time and time again in an endless waltz of terror.

2:58, the face reads, digital numbers swimming in his teary eyes, until, blink, it fades away and he sits up in bed. His hands find their way to his hair, tossing the cockamamie imparted spray of white, all bang and spike. It's perfect, despite havening been grinded in between the pillow and his seat drenched body.

He was, after all, a hard sleeper.

Again, again, and again, the incessant torment of night and the fantasies it brought with it because of him. His memories, imparted to him by a god's divine will of incarnation, Ra be damned. His memories of loss intermingled with his own retentions as his life stretched on and on…

He fumbled blindly over the crowded nightstand, littered with stuff he couldn't even tell where it had come from. A carton of cigs and a lighter, gripped tight and holding on for dear life. It was kissed between wide, thin lips, the cigarette about as long as his palm.

That was the good thing about Seneca Lights 1820's; they lasted.

A scratching click and a low whoosh and it was lit. The soft flame illuminated the room, the heat radiating in little spurts that caught the breeze off of the low ceiling fan hitting his face reminding him too much of the dream and he hurtled the lighter across the room. It hit the wall, more than likely spilling the oh-so-dangerous fluid. His body trembled violently as he held his hands to his temples, cigarette threatening to drop from his pale lips.

"Cancer Sticks," he remarked absently to himself.

If only he could get cancer, then he might actually have a damnable excuse for this self-pity that wormed its way into his gut; a parasite feeding off this wild complex that was his hormones.

Long, unbearably long life, filed with loss and sorrow, the fragility of mortals had killed of the emotions that made him human.

What was left were those of a monster.

Fear, hate, cowardice, resent, dread; he was a monster, wanting nothing more than to be human, the looking glass mocking him by showing him a copy of a human body, echoes of sanity.

The darkness was suffocating him, hot and arid despite the low whirring of the fan. He violently got up, heaving his body. He tripped through the dark over haphazard objects on the cluttered floor, finding the previous day's jeans and a pair of flip flops. Not bothering with a shirt, he donned his black trench, which he felt suited him; dark, a tangible representation of his soul inked by countless sin, too dark to go back.

Soon his feet were hitting wet pavement, a mobile carbon copy of the dark blanket above him with no set destination in mind. To just wander until his thoughts dwindled down to ash.

A bitter smirk warped his face as the irony donned on him.

He tore down desperate streets, cracked and hot from a summer's rain, not relinquishing the heat of the day to night. If it could just hang on, it would be reunited with the day once more.

Then 'it' happened. The incident that would forever change him, not in a minor way like a desperate need of a new haircut, but something cataclysmal, like the falling of an empire or the dying out of a species.

He tripped, too lost in thought to notice the lunk of dark plastic in the path way, falling to his knees. It jarred his from his thoughts, the impact absorbed through his wrists which were bent too far back, asphalt biting into his knees and rolling around in what was now raw flesh.

He gasped as his eyes opened, a natural reaction to a fall. His eyes met a smaller set, spit and image to his own.

'An infant? Who leaves an infant out like this? I've seen some awful humans, but…'

It blinked then reached up and grabbed him by the Sennen Ring that hung at his neck, the very object that never left and he forgot was there.

This infant, who shouldn't have the strength to grasp let alone pull, grabbed him by the very object that was the source of his misery and was pulling it away from him.

He picked it up, bringing it to his chest along with the Millennium Ring.

No. He couldn't. He could barely take care of himself, he had inner demons, hell, he was a demon…

The infant laid its head on his chest sleepily. His hand found its way to the infant's hair…

Turning around, Bakura headed home, smiling for what had been the first time in years.

'A delicate flower, for cultivating and cherishing.'