Disclaimer: I own nothing-no Yu-Gi-Oh, no Bakura, no nothing. I'm not even uploading this on my own computer-mine doesn't work.
Author's Note: Below is the result of me being up until 5 A.M. (I couldn't sleep...), and writing random junk while listening to World's End Dancehall. I don't own that either. By the way, I've noticed that in most of my fics, I have no clue what they're about. The same can be said for this. Oh, and I thank my best friend (no name for you, so, HA) for editing this.
Flicker-a deciduous flash of argent as the blade truculently divides the chilled air. Ryou's pugnacious opponent in their deadly dance gives a hollow chuckle, but it's lost within the tumble of their fragile world shattering, miniscule silver shards scattering with every tick and tock of a non-existent clock. Empyreal beauty-sweeping arches begin to crumble, color fading into monochromatic mayhem before collapsing into the alabaster shadows of a now white world.
The Spirit has a twisted smirk to reveal dagger-fangs and a wicked glint in crimson-camellia eyes, already gaunt skin ethereal under the halo of bone-white light. A deceitful Demon under the guise of an Angel-Ryou, seraphic otherwise-wielding an unsheathed blade of madness, edge sharp against a shattered mind. Only an epigone-missed details break the illusion of innocence.
An ominous creaking sound, hideous screeches, and the calling of unseen crows announcing their prediction. Ryou sees himself shattering as well, skin flaking and shifting into tiny crystal chunks before falling off the edge of their own little world, dragged down into an invisible Hell by something unknown-perhaps the Devil, perhaps the Spirit.
Above them, a red sun crumbles, a blue moon collapses, and a black sky shatters. The ground is already almost gone, and the Spirit is left floating in a white void-he's the only thing that hasn't faded into oblivion, though his sword has crumbled already. Ryou's last conscious thoughts are of the piercing eyes, everlasting smirk, and whispered words fading before he can hear them.
Then their World goes White.
Ryou wakes with a gasp and the feel of a dull blade pressed against his throat-for a moment he thinks he hears murmuring, but it fades before he can focus. He shivers, and a chuckle rings in his head.
In their chaotic ritual, the borders between reality and fantasy have been smeared, gray. A hallucination, a delusion, an imitation, he tells himself, but how is he to know? All but the Spirit feels fake-perhaps that is why everything but the Spirit shatters before the end, why the world is painted white before he understands what's happening, why he never hears the final words of the Spirit. He wakes, and the story ends before anything is really revealed. Ryou must wonder-was it really a dream? But the Spirit gives no response but a blank smile and a humorless laugh.
And even if the Spirit supplied an answer, would Ryou really want to know and leave the comfort of confusion?
Sometimes, a façade formed of lies are better than the truth-what pain lurks behind the lies, he shall never know.