Disclaimer: If I owned Yugioh, either the Japanese or American license, I would be bloody rich, and I would not have to write fanfiction to make this sort of thing happen. Plus, there would be noticeably more blood and snogging going on.
atrophy
/This is my December
This is my time of the year/
Sometimes he wanders the town and wonders what everything does.
He doesn't remember, not anymore. He thinks, he must have known it all, at some point, back then before the snows came, but now everything is covered in thick cold white and no one can tell him.
No one is around anymore, anyway. It wouldn't serve a point to ask.
There must have been others, he thinks, others like him that walked and talked and lived in these streets, before, but he can't remember how they were. They were probably stupid, stupid and happy, and he wonders again where they went and he crunches in the snow, letting his feet take him where they will. They seem to know better than he, at any rate.
All-consuming darkness is not conducive for warmth. Sometimes he thinks he remembers flashes of a time before there was snow, but usually to his mind everything is white.
Simplicity.
Purity.
/This is my December
This is all so clear/
Snow is cold, though, and he needs something to keep him warm. He remembers this – that to stay out of the cold one must find cloth and cover one's body. He murmurs to himself,
Put on some clothes, Yami, or you'll freeze to death, you idiot,
and starts, and catches a glimpse of silken strands before it slides away.
His memories are dusty, like an old book, and it would seem the darkness has enveloped them too. He prods at the veil, and is tempted to rip it away, but his heart clenches and something stops him.
It's never good to remember what's no longer there.
He's in a room now, chilly since the – the what? Something that kept it warm, what was the word?
Remembers: This 'box' is what keeps us from freezing, understand? So repeat after me – Yami. Will. Not. Prod. The. Heater. With. His. Knife.
And a word:
HikariAnd a color:
creamy dark, like coffee latte.
Memories coming back, he says to himself, not good.
/This is my December/
Where is this place? He remembers it, somehow, it's déjà vu – there, the crepe on the couch, he remembers the pattern and the way part of it is slashed. And then the lamp, he remembers the dent in it, from whacking it with a rolling pin trying to kill a fly –
Memories coming back, he says, not good; and he goes upstairs to shut his mind up.
It was better when everything was blank, right after he won, and all he felt was victory and power that flooded his body like an intoxicant.
He's scrounging for clothes here, looking for something that will even remotely fit him. Temperatures are well below zero by now, and the darkness is still not heating anything up. If he could, he would curse the moon and set it ablaze to heat his world, but his powers have faded. The ebbing pulsing triumph that buoyed him through his first days is long gone.
And the blankness it brought is leaving, too, slowly.
And the cloak with the big eye emblem on it fits him so well it could have been tailor-made for his body. Perhaps it was. It smells like –
Cinnamon, Yami, cinnamon. Food. Surely we had this stuff in Egypt before?And the smell of cinnamon, that is what is in this cloak.
Memories. Bad.
But there is warmth also, and the smell makes him happy anyway, so he takes the cloak and leaves the house with the memories.
/This is my snow-covered hill/
The cloak is warm enough for him. He is used to the bite of the wind and the inability to sense his toes. Sometimes he wonders if the parts of his body not directly connected to his torso are still there at all, but he assumes that since when he gets warm they hurt they are.
The snow feels like a blanket, the way he is sitting: curled up in a drift, almost entirely covered in ice, staring at the clearing in front of him. It is the only place with no snow and no cold now, but there is a feel of vacuum within it that makes it worse. Three rectangles of black earth form a triangle in the center. The grass that was once there is all dead, leaving nothing but burnt earth in a perfect ring:
Seven gleaming gold Items, and these he does remember:
Eye.
Scales.
Ankh.
Ring.
Tauk.
Puzzle.
Rod.
He sits here now, looking at each in turn, and there are flashes: images, with no sound, like a poor-quality bootlegged movie: he remembers:
/This is my December/
:eye:
Silver: long and straight, madness like heavy sweet wine, memories of smiles, pictures stolen from another's mind.
Pain, rent of flesh, agony of blindness and loss.
Stolen. Twice.
This one is stolen.
/This is me alone/
:scales:
Long white cloth – headdress. Skin like his own, dark, sun-touched, eyes lazy and sharp. Old, terribly old, a guardian of these since their birth:
Defiance.
Pride.
And shock, shock at the loss, tears, blood.
This one is won.
/And I
Just wish that I didn't feel like there was something I missed/
:ankh:
Death on the floor, puddle of slick gleaming blood. Metallic taste; taste of metal.
Laughter, sound of hysteria and desperation;
This one is taken.
/And I
Take back all the things I said to make you feel like this/
:ring:
Remembers: old associate, silver tangles tumbling and laughter rolling and reminiscent of sharp pointy objects, eyes all red and death and murder:
Remembers: this innocent child, silver upon white, brown eyes, voice soft and polite and breezy like morning wind over sand:
Remembers: these two fought to the end.
Sees the glint of the circle, the sharpness of the points.
Flash: silver upon silver, heads bowed together, arms locked tight in a first and last embrace, whisper of hidden words he cannot hear; they were smiling.
This one is stolen.
/And I
Just wish that I didn't feel like there was something I missed/
:tauk:
Word: Onee-san.
Thinks: Onee-san. Say it, Yami – O-ne-e-san.
Name:
Isis-onee-san.
Remembers: eyes that could be warm and angry and fond and frustrated all at the same time, the warmth of a hand laid gently on his arm, a voice crisp and clear and not quite cold.
Remembers: Well, you're part of my brother, you might as well be my brother too.
Too close, he says to himself, too close. Too close to that memory. Too dangerous.
This one is …
/And I
Take back all the things I said to you/
:puzzle:
Colors: three bright shades, ridiculously spiked. Eyes almost harsh, violently violet, voice accusatory and a figure prone to attacks of posing:
Pharaoh.
And this boy, his – huge eyes, determined, believing and trusting, foolishly.
Remembers: these two trusted in everything to the very end.
Remembers: they were like this: Pharaoh in front, the child behind fighting tooth and nail to shove the other out of the way – useless, teenager's strength against millennia-old will – they were together, they were –
He had the power by then. Even the Puzzle is no match for all the other Items united against it.
Remembers: you will regret.
Remembers his own voice: never!
This one is taken.
/And I'd
Give it all away/
There are mounds of snow by some of the Items. Two apiece for the Puzzle and the Ring – word: hikari – word: yami – one each for the others. None for the Eye. One between the Scales and the Ankh.
He can't count.
It can't be right.
His hand hovers over the Rod.
Says, there were two. Who were they?
Memories: strands, silken, the color of sand on the floors of a tomb. Eyes absorbent rather than reflective, lavender as if all the light has been removed from purple, skin dark like his, body kissed by a desert sun.
Black marks.
Black marks … his fingers stray to his own face.
Too close.
/To have somewhere to go to/
:rod:
Hand on his arm, voice: Yami, what are you doing with the Rod?
Soft slide of skin on skin, remembers speaking: Nothing, hikari-love, Yami is just looking.
Sees this: slender half-naked body sprawled on the bed, voice: Gods, who knew this place got this hot too? Back: scarred, over and over and over, hieroglyphs forming words and sentences, forming the memories of –
Pharaoh.
Lavender suddenly concerned, suspicious. What about Pharaoh, Yami?
Nothing, hikari-love, nothing.
This one is –
Don't think, he says, too close to that, too close to madness.
/Give it all away
To have someone to come home to/
Food is a pressing problem for survival. It should have been obvious, he thinks to himself, but somehow he never thought about that necessity until now – the final waves of power are licking away, he is human again.
Is he?
He is dead, isn't he?
He touches his arm, feels it solid, licks his fingers, and yes, he can feel it, but he could have sworn somewhere –
Yami, you're dead and still you eat like a pig.
So do you.
Hikari, Yami wants more!And there – the silver hair and brown eyes, and the gentle voice saying, You can have some of mine,
No.
He throws a fistful of snow into his own face, lets the cold choke off his memory. That name is dangerous.
/This is my December
These are my snow-covered trees/
It is snowing again, fat white flakes fluttering down to the ground, and everything is very clean and simple. He catches the snow on his tongue, throat remembering to laugh, hoarse at first, and falls back smiling, turns to say something,
Ne, hikariand he realizes no one is there and then he feels alone.
/This is me pretending
This is all I need
And I/
Remembers asking:
What is this stuff?I'd guess it's snow, Yami.
We didn't have this in Egypt.
No.
… Is it good?
It's good, Yami, come out and play in it!
Play?
Remembers: touching the snow for the first time jumping back startled at the cold sensation remembers a glistening amused laugh remembers:
Tackling him to the ground amidst the snow and falling into the coldness in a tangle of heavy scarves and silky hair and startled lavender and saying
We'll win everything we'll rule everything and we'll always be together, ne, hikari-love, always and always and always in the snow?
And laughter again and touch of lips; a promise.
Remembers: I should not remember these.
/Just wish that I didn't feel like there was something I missed
And I
Take back all the things I said to make you feel like this
And I
Just wish that I didn't feel like there was something I missed
And I
Take back all the things I said to you/
He walks the town, cold and empty, and now he can point to some places and say things like, this is where they make coffee and doughnuts. This is where they sold greasy warm utterly unhealthy food. If you put money into this machine it spits candy and drinks at you. This is where we went to school. This is where we –
Yami, try this stuff! It's sweet!He can point to this image and say, this tastes like pink and sweet and summery lightness, and we called it strawberry, and hikari-love said –
He can't, he shouldn't, and he runs away like a child, somewhere he doesn't know.
/This is my December
This is my time of the year
This is my December
This is all so clear/
Leave me alone, he says, he tells them – the memories assault him and tear through his blissful darkness and the snow falls and falls:
/I'd
Give it all away/
Remembers this:
Sadly, pitifully: are you going to leave us, Yami?
Remembers; remembers this angry cold insane voice: No, I'm not the one leaving.
What?
You are of no further use to me. This body will be mine. Farewell, omote.
Wait – Yami! Yami, don't – Yami!
Farewell, omote.
You promised –
And this:
Hikari-love?Yami! What are you –
Hikari-love, where is this?
Yami, you're back.
Back where?
Here. Home. With me.
/To have somewhere to go to/
Sees the clearing, sees the Rod, sees the spot where another body should have been, hears the voices, and the voices, and the voices speak, and there are names:
Ryou! C'mon, we're going to start now!
I'm coming, but – hold on – Bakura! Stop that! – sorry, Yugi – Bakura! No – stop throwing things at Yami!
Aren't we mature, oh great thousand-year spirits?
Jounouchi, you made it!
You invited the dog? I thought this was for skilled duelists only, Mutou?
What did you call me?
Jou, Kaiba, please!
Hey! Sorry I'm late, boys, but there were things I had to attend to.
That's okay, Mai, we're all here now –
Where's Ishtar and his yami?
Ishtar.
Name:
He remembers, suddenly and painfully, and the pieces of a face fall together and he runs.
/Give it all away/
The Rod is knocked down, lying eye-down on the charred ground.
His hands are numb and it's been a long time since he last felt his face, but he can tell from the burning in his eyes that there are tears forming and falling.
He digs.
The snow flies, falling down and shooting up and surrounding him and the body he is uncovering, and he digs.
/To have someone to come home to/
And his hands brush away the last traces of snow from a face dark-pale in death and eyes closed and lips slightly parted, and an expression of great wonder on his face, and he spares a second,
maybe all of them look like this,
And there are the black marks they share, and he has this name and nothing else, and he whispers it like a prayer, again and again and again and again:
Malik.
Malik.
Malik.
/Give it all away
To have somewhere to go to
Give it all away
To have someone to come home to/
-owari-
[words: 2335
paragraphs: 265
sentences: 190]
Gah. How did I get more paragraphs than sentences, dammit??!
Well, that was effing retarded.
And this was written in the space of about an hour total, so please forgive the lack of quality, thought, and or all-round goodness in it. And this was written right after my computer crashed, to replace a Bakura/Ryou fic I hadn't posted yet, and so there is a hint of YB/RB in this as a requiem for that. (apologetic bows) I may rewrite it. I rather liked that one.
And I've lost half a chapter of TMS, and all of an H/D fic I was starting, and all of another H/D fic concept I was developing, so please forgive how cranky I sound here.
(more bows) Moushi wake arimasen!
And before I wrote this I was sitting in a classroom writing Malik Malik Malik repeatedly in hieroglyphs like a freak, and that is why I wrote this.
Right.
Edo … I think my train of thought derailed and fell down that bottomless glass pit Masafumi has in WeiB. (And also I have a sneaking suspicion that the WeiB I bought is incomplete despite the fact that the storekeeper said it was, and that depresses me, and my HikaGo DVDs only have English subs up until the 10th disc, and the last three discs are English-free, and that depresses me too)
(sighs)
I'm going to go write some more drabble … and maybe play Apocripha/0 …
Iya.
Review, please? Please? PLEASE?
lokogato enterprises ltd.
August 11 6:04 PM