A/N: Hey everybody! This is a new story. It will probably be pretty dark themed, as it will deal with death, self-mutilation, and other adult themes. I do not support violence or self-mutilation in anyway, and it is solely used for fiction.

Otherwise, enjoy! This will be a multi-chapter fic, and it is inevitably SetoxJou in some way, shape or form.

Deluge - Prolouge

Time. If only he had more of it. It should have been a breeze, a simple little thing. Ah, but of course it's never as easy as it looks. It's never as easy as the other guy makes it to be.

He knew he was stupid. It wasn't as if that was anything new for him. But what else was he supposed to do. There were things that he could do and things he shouldn't, but there was never anything that he couldn't do. At least that's what he told himself. The probability of success was just never in his favor.

How was he supposed to know that it just wasn't enough? As much as he wouldn't like to admit, sometimes he just needs it to be spoon fed to him.

"You can't do it. You know you can't do it. Don't even bother trying."

But that would only make it worse wouldn't it. Light the flame under his ass, provoke him, tell him he can't do it again one more time.

He dares.

This time he's met with a fist, and it sends him reeling backwards off his feet. He staggers a little bit, holds his cheek in the palm on his hand and feels the heat as it rises from the already swelling wound. There's blood too, on his lips, on the floor, tiny dots of crimson that flowers as it comes into contact with sweat.

"What a little fucker."

This time the other person is knocked to the floor, before being able to react. Sharp jabs fly to his stomach as the blonde continues to pour in savage looking strikes.

It doesn't bother him at all. Savagery suits him best after all. It's not as if he was a kind man to begin with. He was a liar most of the time anyway, feigning an innocence that was almost as honest as a cheating wife.

"Look, the dog's goin' at him again." There's a voice behind the shadow of the crate, sneering. Another one snuffs out a cigarette out with the tip of his shoe. It's made of genuine leather and polished enough that it gleams from the moonlight filtering in between the crates at the harbor. It's a little too expensive for a place like this, but then again who else here knew the difference between fifty bucks and a thousand.

Though it catches the blonde's eye as he stills for just a moment. But it's too long of a moment before the other man that's half beaten up catches his collar and slams him back against the concrete. The dizziness is enthralling, small white specks flickering every time he tries to blink.

So this is how he'll die in the end isn't it, like something straight out of a bad B movie. A one hit K.O., or maybe something more like it's just his bad karma. Somebody should have told him the pain was going to hurt like hell.

Anybody, it could have been anybody, he just wanted to have somebody tell him the truth for once. Though he knows he's a little too greedy to ask for a thing like that, because he wasn't one to give the truth either.

So who would want to give it to him?

He knows that his fading vision probably isn't the end, as much as he wished it could be. His hearing is only slightly disorientated, the sound of shoes clicking their way over slowly. Steady. One, two, one, two. How could he forget that stride.

He's half delirious at this stage, wavering between unconsciousness and whatever the hell it was he didn't want to be in. The throbbing pain in his head and back still hurt, and the feeling in his fingertips is all but absent. The shoes make their appearance again, as his head lolls to the side without his consent.

Shoes. He remembers them so well. Out of so many others, it's these particular shoes he has a knack for remembering, even in his somewhat unconscious state. Black, patent leather, the slight emboss of a designer's name he couldn't possibly pronounce, and the slight scuff on the man's right shoe. Of course he remembers, he was the one who marked it like that anyway.

He wants to say something like, "Fancy meeting you here" or even "Miss me already?" but knows anything that comes out of his mouth right now would sound like drunk onomatopoeia. It would have sounded like a poor attempt at a serenade to the man's shoes and knows just how unsightly it would have been. Even the dog knows that.

There's some kind of hushed whisper that doesn't make it to his ears. It sounds like a dirty secret, but he'll have none of it. Couldn't if he even really wanted too. His body feels weightless, as he's pulled up from the ground. Figures he's all bones and skin anyway, its no wonder they can haul him up with the strength of one hand. He can't remember the last time he's has a decent meal, and by decent he means something that doesn't come out of a can, or a frozen boxed kiddy meal.

The thought of food doesn't sit well with his stomach, as the pain throbbing in his head almost makes him want to vomit. The swaying movement does nothing to help, as something quickly makes its way to the back of his throat. It's acidic, vile, and tastes all too much like his own blood.

He's placed in a fancy car, as gently as the men can make it. For crying out loud, he doesn't need to be treated like a doll. He's one hundred percent man, even if his scrawny body says otherwise. It's just his tough luck that he doesn't have the physique of a super model, not that he cares or anything. There's a distinct smell in the car, as his face rubs against the seats. Of course they would be leather, he wasn't expecting anything less. Everything comes in pairs with the leather shoed man. He's noticed it since the beginning.

When did it start? He can't remember it anymore. As much as he tries to pry open his own mind, there's something like a dark black void right smack in the middle of it. He's left with fragments and shards of memories that feel so vague and foreign to him, like they're not really his and that maybe somebody has been tampering with them. Like they show in those alien sci-fi movies every so often. Cliché.

It feels like a fire slow burning at his mind, because his brain won't let him choose between being unconscious or not. The man in the suit and leather shoes takes a seat in the empty space left over that's not taken by the curled up man. It suddenly smells like strong vanilla and musk, and a little hint of something earthy. The blonde stirs slightly from the scent.

She had a similar scent. Like of dawn dewdrops mixed with soft lavender and fresh dirt. He remembers she was gentle too. Patient and strong willed. She was everything he wasn't, and everything he needed. He gave everything to her, make her shine, and bloom so brightly that no matter where or how far apart they were he could always find her again. He didn't want to lose her again, not again, not ever.

But he knows how stupid and ignorant he is for thinking that. He's neither a god nor superhero, and it hurts the more truthful reality is. Hits him hard, hits him hard enough for his mind to start tumbling down the narrow pathway he's got set up for himself. After all, nobody else was going to traverse it for him.

He can feel his bruised face ache from the previous fight, small shallow cuts that rub against the seat every time the car speeds over a bump. But the pain doesn't feel like it's his anymore, more surreal than anything else. The only thing that registers in his mind anymore is feeling of somebody softly petting his hair. Gently, tenderly, he recalls something similar, even if the hand that strokes warmly is larger than he remembers.

"Jounouchi."

The sound that resonates in his ears sounds nothing remotely close to hers. It shatters the fragile wall between, until he's left with nothing but a darkening chasm. Cold, oh he feels the coldness creeping in now, eyes heavy with a certain kind of defeat. He can't carry on anymore. Today will end like every other day, even if the bitterness comes and fills his mouth again with that morbid taste. He knows this isn't how he should be, and lets the false hand caress his hair without a fuss.

Time, he just needed a little bit more of it. But then again, what could the poor, useless, stupid mutt do anything about it now.

He was only Jounouchi after all.