All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it I have now surpassed. My pain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better world for anyone, in fact I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape.
- American Psycho, Bret Easton Ellis

Prologue:

"Long live the king!"

Marik grins at him. His arms have hollow indents from where his gold bands have pressed into his skin and his scars itch from the brick wall behind him, so he shifts slightly to lean on a poster. The poster is blue and the man standing proudly has a smile with the teeth coloured in black and a magic marker moustache. His eyes look like Bakura's.

"If you would be so kind, your majesty, we should probably fuck off before somebody finds us."

"Ah, little Marik. What would life be without a little adventure?" Bakura has blood on his teeth. Marik wrinkles his nose.

"Safe?"

"Boring," Bakura corrects. Marik watches the flicker of sunlight on his paper white skin as he brushes himself down. Marik glances at the body between them.

"Hey, is he dead? And don't call me little, I'm taller than you."

"That's because I have no body, idiot. And no, he's breathing, unfortunately."

Marik turns and walks away. Bakura has no choice but to follow. Marik's right, he is a little taller, and it takes a small little run to catch up with his stride, and places a hand on the back of his neck.

"Hey!" Marik jumps away. "Red isn't my colour, do you mind?"

"Nothing wrong with getting your hands dirty."

"Bakura, your hand is covered in blood and – snot. It's disgusting. I really rather you wouldn't."

Bakura leans in close and licks all the way down his neck. Marik picks up his pace. So does Bakura.

"Hey, I got the card I wanted. What do you want to do today?"

"Ignore you."

"That's not very nice. I came back from the dead to keep you company, you know."

"Bakura, nobody likes to be haunted. That's kind of the point."

"My goals remain unfulfilled and I linger in this world as a spirit to avenge my enemies and –"

"I know, I know, rule the world and all that. But do you really need to do that with card games?"

Bakura pouts. "The Pharaoh does."

"The Pharaoh," Marik gives him a pointed look, "is probably still around to keep you out of trouble."

Bakura stands straight haughtily. "Look, do you want my help or not? Because as much as I enjoy punching strangers in the face and stealing their deck, you really don't seem all that impressed."

Marik's step falters, but only for a second.

"No," he says with a slight hesitation. Slight. "Look where fighting got me before –"

"That wasn't fighting, that was murder –"

" Shut up. My point is, I don't know why we don't just control the guards and get them to bring the Items to us."

"Because we need the Rod to do that, stupid." Bakura knocks on his head for effect. "And to get the Rod we need to duel. And to duel, we need rare cards. Do you see where I'm going here?"

Marik grits his teeth.

"You're awfully talkative for a dead person."

There's a silence.

"Bakura?"

Marik turns to look into soft eyes, like pudding. He begins to choke. Ryou manages a watery smile before coughing.

"Fuck you, thief king," he mutters. Soft brown melts into blood and it still somehow amazes him, that they look so different in the same body but still somehow exactly the same. It's something in the way they hold the skin around their mouth, the way they stand, how the lines around their eyes are shaped. "You really shouldn't do that to him, you know. I don't think it's very healthy."

"Are you saying you'd prefer his company?", Bakura smirks, but something behind his eyes is insecure. He throws a casual arm around slender shoulders and Mark thinks – dear God. The proximity brings them to a more casual pace. He's not really sure how to answer that.

"I think it's safer to stay away from the man with two people living inside his head, generally."

"I don't have multiple dissociative disorder, if that's what you're getting at." Bakura's arm is still around his shoulders. "In my mind, the more the merrier."

"In Ryou's mind, I imagine two's company."

Bakura smiles, and Marik can't help but hope it's genuine.

There's blood on his hands, and no matter how much he scrubs and scrubs he can't get it off. Marik hates that. He's kneeling on the floor wiping his hands over and over on rich blue velvet but it remains untouched. He vaguely hears laughter, somewhere in the distance, so he looks up at the sky and sees Bakura. He's wearing a crown and jerks the velvet cloak away.

"Don't touch," he demands. Bakura's voice booms. He's as tall as a house, maybe. Or Marik is tiny. He can't tell from down here. "That's my line," he squeaks out, but the giant ignores him. He's looking at something in the distance. "What? What?" he tries, tugging his tiny hands on Bakura's trousers but he ignores him.

"Fee, fi, fo, fum," his voice is like marble, or a castle, something tangible but inhuman in its grandeur. "I smell the blood of an Egyptian."

Marik stands up, growing and growing and growing as he does so. It exhausts him, so he leans on Bakura, but can't feel it. Like he's asking for support from air. Like a ghost passed through him.

The world shifts, and suddenly it's no longer him and Bakura, and Marik can't help but feel a twinge of – what? Relief? Irritation? They're surrounded by angels and this time Marik knows he's dreaming. Faceless men are sewing wings onto rag doll bodies. "They don't give them halos," Bakura claims knowingly, "because they'll choke on them."

Marik doesn't like this dream. He rarely does. He squeezes his eyes shut but when he opens them, all the angels around him are dead.

"There's something on the horizon," Bakura whispers.

"Don't be so fucking cryptic," he shakes his head and looks where Bakura's cold black eyes have rested. All Marik can see is darkness, until suddenly it's not, and he's looking at himself reflected back in the icy black. He looks exactly the same only different. He's slightly thinner, worn out. There's a cut on his lip. He looks at Bakura's reflection, surprised to see he has one. This isn't the first time Bakura visited his mind, after all. The fucking vampire. Bakura looks like Bakura, only his golden crown is silver. Oh – no, it's made of teeth. Bakura's eyes meet his in the reflection, seemingly unaware of the jaw above his head waiting to swallow him whole. Bakura smiles and it's softer than usual. No teeth. Where did they go? – Oh.

"Oh, fuck," and suddenly his dirty hands aren't the problem. There's teeth everywhere, all over his skin, razor sharp blades, little angry pebbles filling him up from outside in ripping right through his stomach until he's torn in half like a trading card and he can't scream can't scream needs to yell and oh God why won't he just die

"Better luck next time," Bakura shrugs.

AN: If you remember my previous chaptered story "An Omen in the Bone" which I deleted then a, you are a fantastic person for following my fic for so long, and b, a year ago I promised I would rewrite it to be less pretentious, have minimal OCs and generally be, you know, better. So, here it is. I have no idea where I'm going, but it's definitely somewhere. Let's see how my first real chaptered fic ever goes!