Perfection by Possession.
Not many know Ryou Bakura is an artist.
But the Spirit of the Ring inside him knows it, and knows it well—always watching him, always eager to learn the secrets of his expertise as he picks up a pen or a brush as his weapon of choice. In fact, he has always known; in the past, he always enjoyed the way his nimble host painted tiny, intricate details on small miniature figures for his tabletop games. They were always perfect, outwardly-suitable vessels for human souls, after all, and this more than pleased him. There was obvious skill involved every time he applied his creative touch to a figure, a sheet of paper, or a canvas. The Spirit admires this about the body he has claimed as his own.
Sometimes, he uses these gifted skills for his own benefit.
"This was an absolutely terrible idea," came his annoyed voice from behind the canvas.
"What now? Afraid you can't do my beauty justice?"
Marik laughed playfully as he kept his body fully motionless on the floor, well aware of the dark set of eyes glaring at him in both concentration and warning.
"No, that's not the issue at all," Bakura answered absently. "I see the way you're looking at me, and I don't like it."
Marik scoffed. "What?"
"Your eyes… you're surprised that I'm doing this, and that I'm capable of such aesthetic lunacy."
Bakura stopped the last stroke of his brush with a harsh point; even Marik could hear its emphasis from his vulnerable position on the floor. Not only had Bakura stopped painting, but he had also stopped looking at his muse. His right hand, loosely gripping a thin paintbrush, now hung limp at his side.
"Are you really worried that I think that?" Marik asked incredulously. He began to adjust himself in a position more suited for arguing, but saw his painter tense up at his movement. "That you worry this will make you any less intimidating to me, the fact that you can draw?"
"Don't be ridiculous, have you forgotten this isn't my body? These aren't my skills or experience, or even my fingers… yet I can still use them however and whenever I want. Now, stop your incessant chatter and let me concentrate."
Marik rolled his eyes as he obeyed, for once, choosing to humor Bakura by submitting to his pompous wishes. The sooner he let him finish his work, the sooner he'd get a chance to actually see it. That, and he'd very much enjoy being able to move again. He'd get the last word in later, once he saw what Bakura was really capable of—as an artist, and an ally.
He wasn't sure where he was supposed to be looking while Bakura painted him, as this was the first time he'd ever done something like this; no one had ever wanted to paint him before. All he knew is that he had been told to stay deathly still throughout this artistic process. Really, the idea behind this sudden painting wasn't his… it was completely Bakura's doing.
Bakura was far from nervous when he had originally asked if Marik was interested in posing for him to practice something he was curious about "testing." However, now was a much different story—Bakura was seemingly having all kinds of difficulty. He squinted his eyes with frustration often, growling to himself as he buried his face into his work.
Marik decided to stick with just watching Bakura as he painted, and so far, it had resulted in many awkward moments of accidental eye contact. He was enjoying the way Bakura was looking at him, but not really looking at him. It almost felt like he was looking straight through him with those dark, empty eyes, and he reminded himself several times that he wasn't really moving his eyes all over his body for his enjoyment, he was merely a reference. An artist and his model had a purely professional relationship, and this unlikely situation was no different.
Still, Marik couldn't help but watch him back. After all, he was growing more and more curious as to what was going on behind that over-sized canvas. He had to admit that he really was surprised Bakura even had such a desire for a thing like this… even though he said it was his host's talents and not his own, Marik had to wonder. He wasn't sure how it worked, and apparently neither had Bakura, initially: this was one of the main reasons he wanted to try.
Apparently, even a bloodthirsty, vengeful Spirit could have a hobby on the side.
"So… the Bakura boy is an artist, then?"
The Spirit of the Ring snorted, his eyes suddenly glued back to the canvas. "If you're so interested about him, why don't you ask him yourself? I'm sure he'd love to finish this painting of you himself, maybe even take off that covering you have conveniently shielding your lower half."
"Don't tell me you're jealous of your host, after all this time," Marik countered, slightly annoyed at the thought of Bakura being so testy over such an innocent, standard question. Gifted artist or not (Marik had yet to see for himself and form his opinion), Bakura was awful at the art of pleasant conversation.
"I'm not jealous," he quickly defended. "I was simply pointing out that you have been asking a lot of questions about him lately."
"If I do, it's only because you bring him up first, just like you did now! Honestly, I'm beginning to think you've got some twisted obsession for your other self. You definitely have some kind of attachment to him."
"As a matter of fact, I do," Bakura replied, looking over the top of his painting to eye Marik threateningly. "It's hard not to grow attached to the body that makes your present existence in this world possible. I need this body, and I need it completely… I need it to collect the Millennium Items, I need it to exact my revenge against the Pharaoh—I need it to be here with you, right here in this moment."
The words slipped out faster than he had meant them to, and he quickly hushed himself after the last word. He looked surprised as he looked away from Marik and back to his painting, as if he hadn't said anything at all. His pale lips instantly pursed back into a frown.
Marik bit his lip, his eyes set in deep concentration as he thought about Bakura and his words. It was true that he needed this host, as he was really nothing more than a parasite in his current state; the Millennium Ring was useless without a vessel. He was completely different than the boy he inhabited, the frail, unassuming body standing behind the canvas. Marik had never really exchanged words with the true Ryou Bakura, he only knew what he was like because of the way he had seen the Spirit copy him and his personality from time to time. The Spirit was brash, rude, arrogant—the boy, Ryou, was innocent and cheerful, sometimes even awkward and arcane. The Spirit was very good at pretending, but Marik could always tell when the Spirit was present. Just like now, his aura and presence completely changed the ambiance whenever he was in control. How Ryou Bakura's friends—especially Yugi—couldn't always spot the overwhelming difference, he would never know.
"Can't say I'm not enjoying this, really," Marik suddenly said aloud. He smiled, as if joking, though really they both knew otherwise. Marik was always admittedly fond of such attention.
"Hmph," Bakura returned the smile deviously, "Can't say I'm not enjoying the view."
Marik's long, slender body was laid out in a delicate pose on the floor, his smooth, dark skin beautifully contrasting the light gold sheet flowing over his waist and curving around him. The rest of him was perfectly bare, minus some golden bangles and his earrings, and Bakura hated the fact that he was having a hard time ignoring Marik's undeniable charm. It was really starting to get to him.
He felt himself frown as he took a long, lingering glance at him once again; the Egyptian was much more than any painting or picture could ever capture. Even with the stolen talent he currently possessed, he knew it would still be quite a task. Marik was elegant, flawless… truly a prince among the rabble, nothing short of what royalty used all their money and influence to be. He wanted desperately to convey that in his painting… he wanted princesses—no, queens or goddesses—to look at Marik and curse the day they were born someone different than him.
Bakura couldn't help but imagine him as a modern-day pharaoh, and perhaps he could see himself—if he could squint hard enough at the thought—as his slave, bowed prostrate at his feet. He would gladly be in any manner of chains for this prince, provided that he could prove his worth and merit to him through intimate servitude.
He grinned self-assuredly behind sharp, predatory teeth. Things Marik would never know couldn't hurt him. Naturally, Bakura would never admit allegiance or submission to this human. Not in this lifetime, not with this body.
Marik cleared his throat, wiggling his toes to help alleviate some of the tension in his motionless limbs. He was starting to feel numb from all this stillness. He couldn't see for sure because of the canvas, but it looked like Bakura had momentarily stopped painting.
"Is there a reason you're staring at me with that strange look on your face, or are you just distracted?" Marik asked. He didn't try to hide the fact his voice was slowly inviting him further. "Hmm, how I'd love to penetrate your mind with my Rod, see what thoughts you're hiding in there from me…"
Bakura growled, refusing to let down his guard again. How did Marik always do that? He could, somehow, easily read his thoughts without even having to really try… "There's no use in that, I'm afraid. I'd simply switch control to my host before you could search me. You'll never infiltrate my mind."
He ignored Marik's waning smile, dipping his brush quickly into a new pile of fresh paint. His thoughts unconsciously returned to what this session might be like if that damned sheet wasn't there. Whose idea was that, again…?
"Can we take a short break? I'm a bit stiff," Marik commented dully, slowly closing his eyes.
Me too, Bakura thought as he stopped his last stroke to look at him. "No, I'm almost finished, I… I'm getting closer," he answered.
"Fine," Marik groaned miserably, "but I'm going to kill you if this was just a waste of time."
"Mm," was all Bakura said to this taunting—but empty—threat. Marik noticed him chewing his lip in concentration as his hand moved quickly across the canvas in swift, heavy strokes. It was getting faster every passing moment, the climax of their time together coming to an end by the final sounds of the brush against the coarse cloth of the canvas.
Bakura suddenly stepped away from the painting, eyeing it closer to take in whatever was pictured there. His face did nothing to give away whether it was good or bad, abstract shapes or true likeness reflected through the glint in his eyes. Pieces of his pale hair were stuck to his face with small stains of black paint.
Since Bakura had stopped painting entirely, Marik slowly began to sit up from his position. "When? When do I get to see it?"
"Whenever it dries, and I'm about fifteen minutes worth of steps away from this boat."
Marik cackled slightly, adjusting the sheets that gathered around his hips as he moved. "You don't want to see my reaction? You think I'm some kind of fool? I know you better than that—anyone would. You're arrogant and always craving praise, after all."
"I don't need praise, I already know that it's worthy of compliments."
"Arrogant, just as I said," Marik added sharply.
Bakura only stared at him, arms crossed indifferently over his paint-stained striped shirt. "Besides, I'm not doing this for praise."
"Oh? And what was it you were doing this for, again?" Marik asked mockingly. "To be in a room with me while I'm naked and at your command? Is that what you're into?"
"While I'm not arguing the latter, I'm doing this solely as an experiment."
Marik hated the smug way he watched him behind the enigmatic canvas placed between them. He always had something clever to say, something to retort back any advances with. He could never tell if he wanted to chase or be chased in this silly game they were playing.
With a shrug, Marik slowly stood, the sheet succinctly dropping to the floor once he was fully on his feet. He walked towards Bakura with a proud smile. "And what experiment would that be?"
While Bakura didn't bother hiding the way he curiously searched the naked form before him with conspicuous, widening eyes, he didn't budge in his stance in the least. "An experiment to see how accurate my imaginings are, and how skillful I am at portraying them on a blank medium. You'd be wise to remember the skills my host and I possess, Marik."
"The only skill I've seen from you is the way you hide inside the Millennium Ring like a coward, creating your lies and your strategies… you're already planning your escape before you even decide to strike. Don't tell me I'm wrong."
"And how is that different from the way you prance about with your precious Millennium Rod…? I'm convinced you use it more for decoration than purpose! I wonder what you'd do without it, with nothing shiny or significant to hide behind… without mind-slaves to hide behind."
Marik grinned slightly. "You mock me, but do you want to see what I can do with it? Because I'd be more than happy to show you personally."
"Perhaps…" Bakura started slowly, the scowl on his face softening a bit. "But not today, I'm afraid. This painting has exhausted me… perfection comes at a price, you know."
"Yes, I do know. About perfection, that is."
Bakura laughed menacingly, his eyes wandering Marik's stance before him. He currently stood with a hand propped boldly on his protruding hipbone. Marik made standing stark naked in an empty room look natural and ordinary, like he belonged there as some sort of expensive, sculpted idol. He was like a human-sized work of art all on his own, really.
"I don't doubt it, Marik… I truly don't."
He took one last lingering look at him before sharply turning away with a victorious grin. Marik didn't bother reacting to him before he was already out the door and out of sight.
The Spirit was always like this... ephemeral and dramatic, to say the least. For now, there was nothing that could be done about him. Without further ado, Marik sighed, stomping his way to the anticipated canvas he so desperately wanted to see. Bakura was an idiot if he thought that he would wait for him to disappear first.
The closer he got to it, the closer his heart danced in anticipation within him. The fact that this Bakura had just painted him was starting to set in; the fact that he had trusted him enough to show such a different side of himself... a side so different than the cold, ruthless spirit he always appeared as.
He was nervous and excited all the same as he imagined what unknown creation awaited on the other side. If it was a failure, he would be more than insulted by such a gesture; Bakura did seem confident in both his ability and the finished product, but... how exactly was anyone to completely trust a thief that had stolen an artist's body and boasted the spoils as his own?
Pushing his doubts aside, Marik's eyes widened as he finally gazed up his portrait; not only was it amazing beyond words, transcendent, like a photograph… it was also a complete surprise. His mouth was agape as he studied the detail put into this painting, the perfection of the strokes and the likeness of how much it truly looked like Marik.
The rise of his cheekbones, the texture of his skin, the details of the fine contour trailing in mysterious shadows down his stomach…
Perhaps a little too much like Marik.
He felt heat rising to his cheeks as he realized the satin sheet he wore previously was nowhere to be found on this painting, the entirety of his body fully exposed on the canvas. Perfectly, really. Marik was almost disturbed by how Ryou Bakura was so skilled at drawing nude people… and how either of them, Bakura or his host, could imagine so accurately what Marik might look like under the discarded sheet. After all, it wasn't far off.
The picture was beautifully, eerily provocative. He couldn't decide if he wanted to frame it, or burn it; display it proudly for all to look upon, or bury it deep within the sand so that even the burning, panoptic rays of the sun couldn't see.
He almost felt violated until he realized that's probably what Bakura wanted him to feel... even now, ever since the beginning—ever since the idea to paint him even crossed his mind. He was trying to toy with him, with the foundation of their recent alliance, and Marik would have none of that. Just the fact that he had taken this idea seriously—taken Bakura seriously—at face value was a complete oversight and had been a waste of Marik's valuable time.
He slammed his palms onto the painting, the feeling of cool, wet paint numbing his fingertips. He had no idea what to expect having Bakura as an ally, but it certainly wasn't this! Although...
He considered himself colored completely, pleasantly surprised somewhere behind his angry blush.
The painting was... well, it was just as he said, not too long ago:
He knew all about perfection.
Bakura had since left the boat, his steps taking him closer to the heart of the city he steadily escaped towards. He expected Marik to maybe come after him, shouting insults or assaulting him with telepathic death threats, because he knew he prided himself in having the last word in everything regarding their recent partnership.
Or perhaps he was too proud for that, too dignified. He truly appeared so, at least on canvas, where mixtures of colors carefully blended together to form his matchless beauty.
Well, at least Bakura now knew that he could draw. So far, it was a skill that had proved to be most useful when dealing with negotiations and…
Marik.