established ryou x malik, post-canon, blood, angst.
originally written as a drabble for boylston on tumblr
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mnemonics
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"Does Rishid know about this?" No reply. "Or Ishizu?"
Malik did not speak or turn or even stir. He did, however, flinch a little when Ryou pressed the cotton ball a little too deep into one of the wounds, just below his shoulder blade.
"Sorry," Ryou whispered, feeling suddenly very small in the deserted Ishtar mansion. Ishizu had flown back to Egypt after the Arab spring, claiming that she felt a sense of duty, that she wanted to help rebuild the country. Rishid had initially been reluctant to follow her, but Ryou's new role in his protégé's life made it feel like he was entrusting Malik to the gentle care of the boy rather than leaving him behind.
Caring for Malik Ishtar turned out to be a sisyphean task, because he'd given up on absolutely everything, including himself.
For a while there was silence, and the mesmerizing sight of pristine white soaking in dark red. The stained cotton balls now outdid the sanitized ones in numbers. Ryou could only imagine what tools and techniques Malik employed to butcher his own skin like this.
Ryou tried to keep quiet, but the tong clicked smartly as he laid it on the table counter. He lowered his gaze, not wanting to look at Malik's wounded back anymore. From the corner of his eyes he saw Malik straighten up and heard a stifled whimper; then, a short, strained sigh.
"No one's asking you to do this," Ryou risked, letting his eyes trail unto the freshly retraced patterns on the young man's back. The wounds Ryou had meticulously patted dry woke again, weeping in places.
A colonial clock ticked richly, punctuating his heartbeat, and perhaps Malik's.
But Ryou had no way of knowing.
"It takes more and more time to heal, everytime," Ryou noted. And that meant less and less embraces, and kisses, and fingers trailing on his lover's body. Not that said blond had been a touchy feely type of person to start with.
The blood stopped prickling and would clot soon. Ryou shook his head slowly, setting to pick up the dreaded tong again.
But Malik's shoulders straightened as if he were going to talk. And because they were so attuned to one another, in a strange way, Ryou drew his hand back and laid it on his lap, docile and patient.
They both waited. Then:
"I do it to remember."
But you don't need to. Ryou bit his lip. Hard.
"If I let it fade away," Malik continued, his voice unnaturally even, "it'll have been in vain. You have to understand."
Maybe Ryou had been just that - too understanding, too patient, too tolerating of his self destructive behaviors.
"I don't want to be worthless," Malik blurted out, his voice breaking.