was it really inevitable?
Constructive criticism and criticism alike are welcomed
Lilac eyes opened.
Three days ago there would have been a spark of hope and a hint of a smirk.
I had hoped that somehow, through some unfathomable force, this was because he could feel my presence and not some idle waking moment reaction. That that calm look, with smug expectations came because I was here, with my knees pressed against the cold metal bedframe, sitting on my heels.
He rises, and I with him, as he ventures towards the door with little hesitance. I drift around that bed, not from habit like him but from feigned normalcy – because I could simply go over or even through the bed. But I decided a while ago that doing such impatient things would do nothing but feed this doubt festering inside me that things can't return to what they were. That instead of being stuck inside the ring for an eternity, I would be stuck in this half existence between realms.
The door is opened and I slide to be ahead of him in the small corridor that ultimately lead to the kitchen and couch.
"why do you always do that?" "I am flaunting my thieving skills by stealing your lead" "if that's so then you're also flaunting your lack life skills. Only an idiot shows someone this back, especially if they're a weak theifling" "WHAT did you call me"
If I were a weaker being, I suppose a tear or so would leak out of my eyes as the familiar area brings back memories. Or rather the small walk assaults me with warm memories that only increase my isolation. Every day this sensation doesn't cease or decrease in its strength.
I resist the urge to look back and see if this affects him too, because he was always the one who had himself completely under control. I always was the first to crack and do or say something stupid. His face would never, and I'm near positive will never, betray his inner emotions unless he allowed it. Always schooled perfectly in character against his and my enemies. Even when noone is around he is controlled, as if in a personal vendetta against himself; which, I can only guess, came after I left. I can't be sure if he even feels a hint of the nostalgia that I do, as I remember the mocking words said here, the chaste kiss shared there after he wrapped his arms around my shoulders and whispered saccharine apologies after some taunt or goad, though more often than not the teasing would end with me turning around to punch him instead of sulking. The swing would be a half-hearted one aimed at his head that usually resulted in my offending hand being held above my head by his forearm and my body being crushed against the wall, with him leaning in casually as if to say 'why so riled up?' before taking a kiss before turning and resuming walking. I would rarely not follow, sometimes just smiling coyly, other times kicking the backs of his feet, or plainly acting like an impudent brat because it felt good to relive my short childhood, but whatever way I chose to react it was ritual and only interrupted when something was wrong.
Perhaps the most painful memories are of the silences shared whilst walking towards the kitchen for food or sunlight, because within those silences there was an indescribable feeling that I, as gold loving as I am, would never trade for all the wealth in the world. One second would be worth more than the universe to me. Those silences are so similar to these eerie ones now that don't communicate or mean anything. They are nought but a cruel mockery of a fond memory.
I miss the feeling of the cold tiles underfoot, and the ability to make a soft thudding with my feet even though while I was corporeal I chose not to. This new routine of Mariks is so similar to our old one, but like the silences, so different. Like yet unlike. Meander in the kitchen, laze about before heading to the bathroom to have a shower. The basics of our old routine are there, but the differences are blindingly obvious. Instead of basking in the sun, he stays in the shadowy part of the couch where I once sat, staring listlessly at the wall until the rays of sunlight reach him. Then instead of lingering, he rises to have a cold shower as if to wake himself up from some slumber. More than five days ago, when he exited the shower there would be a small gleam of hope in his eyes as if it really was all just a dream.
He opens the door, instead of a steam of hot air rushing out with him, what I imagine to be a cold breeze follows him as a mist. He brushes past me and again I linger in the hallway until he reappears again from the bedroom quickly closing the door, allowing me only a glance in at the small bed and its surrounding.
"seriously though we need to get a new bed if I'm to live here with you" a laugh "and here I though I was doing you a favour by giving you an excuse to snuggle up to me" "bugger off, I'm not some bloody romantic female. You're just too lazy to go out and get one. Ha we'll see how well you can breath at night with me sleeping on you"
My eyes crinkle fondly at the memory, which is as much as I allow before the bedroom and its memories are sealed away once more.
He is grabbing his keys now, tanned hands swiftly collecting the coat off the hallstand in the same fluid movement, then no pause as he exits through the front door. He gets enough sun outside which I am thankful for, it makes it easier to believe that things are okay and that the world is still revolving for him. As always I act as his doppelganger, following him as he ventures into the outside world, slipping through as he turns to close – not lock the door.
He gets home late. Much later than logically should be possible after visit Ryou and Malik, but somehow he manages and spends as much time away from the apartment as possible while avoiding as many people as possible then returning to the apartment as tired as possible; all but collapsing into the bedroom, taking no interest in the surroundings except for the ceiling once he has fallen onto the mattress. It takes some time for his eyelids to droop but when they do I steal a little kiss before resuming my position, sitting on my heels, knees pressed against the cold metal that I cannot feel, eyes trained on his face as he turns to face me. And as much as I want to break this silence by whispering his name, I can't bring myself to. Instead I mouth 'Marik' and leave it at that.
The pharaoh came by, apparently Malik had voiced his concerns, and thus broke the ritual, to tell him that there was no way to bring me back for I was in whatever afterlife (hell) that I deserved because all parts of my soul had been released sometime ago.
For the first time since I entered this state I made a noise. Laughter sprang forth from my ethereal lips. He didn't understand the significance of someone holding your heart, and that was reason enough to break this silence and laugh. Mari laughed too after a few seconds. The desperate sound echoed through the house, sounding maniacal to outsiders and only dieing down sometime after the clicking of the front door. I watched as the noise dwindled away and in its place a solemn murmur with a tear escaped from his restraints. Of course this would be dismissed later as a result of mirth, his first laugh in a long time, instead of heartache.
Between the two of us, I always was the first to crack, but that isn't necessarily as bad thing a thing as I was once taught. His lone tear met on the floor with my own
"we were destined to spend an enternity together"
Yeah it was crap(at least the writing was – I like the plot but I am much too much of a visual person to do it justice and me writing this first thing in the morning doesn't help) but you've read the first thousand four hundred words, so please do continue to read – if nothing just read the challenge kay
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AUTHORS NOTES/ramble
Funny how a four-year-old(okay maybe 6 or 7 but four for dramatic purposes) can allow a 3 thousand plus person to be childish – my view on it is that their relationship (in this fic) is where both can relax; bakura by acting immature (which he does anyway), and marik being immature in his teasing – both are playful, but they only allow each other to see this 'weakness' or what ever you want to call it, because they cant afford for others to see that part of them –lest it destroy their image by making them appear more human or they/M&B's enemies/ use it against them-. Both understand what they are doing in form of making things less serious and getting rid of stress and such that is put on them outside of the apartment (through holding up appearances)
Sum: basically they act for comfort and relaxation whilst having digs at each other (and don't think that I have portrayed kura to be a weakling – he was just living and relaxing in a way that he never could have first time 'round)
CHALLENGE:-
I have a pretty set idea of how Bakura was put in his predicament (aka how he was killed/defeated/or whatever you thought when reading happened to him) but if anyone wants to try writing a prequel –doesn't have to be of him 'dieing', could be of an interaction or something - go ahead and shoot. I would be very interested as to how people interpreted it (fight between lovers that led to estrangement then suicide, yami did it, terminal illness etc go wild) so yeah send me a note or something with a link to the story
(one of the 'scenes' that I thought up for this fic was where bakura would end up curling/resting/leaning on mariks warm sunbaked flesh –sun heated skin is the best- when the sun reached his end of the couch. I didn't put it in because it would distrupt the story but…plot bunny?)