Dull scarlet light shone through the bars of the holding cell, illuminating the face of the man who was sitting on the floor. His face was expressionless, but with a splash of sadness about his features which one can only sense, rather than see. His lips were parted as he breathed through his mouth, deep breaths causing a rise and fall of his chest. His arms were above his head, handcuffs chaining him to the wall. It seemed as though he was lucky to be able to sit without an extremity of pain. But perhaps he had been here so long, he had just stopped registering it. His legs were also chained to the wall, folded in a criss-cross manner beneath him. He sat, naked as the day he was born; vulnerable, exposed.
His once bright violet eyes were now quite dulled, exuberance worn away with time of being chained and shackled. The prisoner rarely even opened them anymore, knowing full well what was around him, what every sound was, and how pointless it all was. With each passing day his hope for salvation was etched out of his mind, one blot at a time. The sun on his face meant nothing but false hope, felt and enjoyed only by the free. He had done no wrong, only killing a man who was hurting his brother whom he loved dearly. No visitors could ever come visit him; the only way into his world from an outsider was by way of the window, there were no doors. He was neither fed nor watered, and thus did not produce waste. There was nothing to distract him from his misery, his torture. For as if the physical pain was not enough, being left alone with yourself for years can drive even the most sane to madness, and this man was already slightly mad to begin with. He had once made a game of seeing if he could stop all thought, but no longer was this just a game, rather than a routine; he would now spend hours without thought, without feeling, and, arguably, barely even existing.
And it was in a mood as this, numb, unfeeling, calloused, as did something finally happen. The wind, which had long been silent, blew into his cell, causing his eyes to blink and thought to return to him. Many times did his mind trick him in such a way, and he refused to get his hopes up incase his underused mind decided to hallucinate again. But this was no trick of the mind; the wind blew into his room, bringing darkness with it. The blackness swallowed the room, dousing any and all light in its wake, plunging the prisoner and his small cell into pitch black. The prisoner himself still only raised his head, a flicker of life stirring behind his eyes.
The darkness cleared, and as it did, a figure stood in the room with him. The tanned prisoner blinked repeatedly and tilted his head, trying to make out whom it was. His face still had the tired sadness about it, movement being the only indication he was not in a stupor. The figure was tall, a pale tan robe covering his body, and a deep maroon cloak covering his head and shrouded his face. The figure shook slightly, a cruel laugh reverberating through the room. "Hello, Marik."
Marik blinked again, recognizing the voice, but did not respond, hope extinguishing the question that wanted to break from his lips. The figure must have found that amusing, for with one hand, he removed the cloak's hood, exposing pale skin, white hair, flashing red eyes, and a mocking smirk. "Cat got your tongue? No better greeting for your lover?" He gave another loud laugh.
The prisoner was motionless for a few moments, in the process of convincing himself that this was real, and not a hallucination. He shakily stood, keeping a hand on the wall to his back. His heart had leapt into motion, but was immediately squashed. He was living in hell- why had he not come for him sooner? "B-…Bakura, …why?" was all the tired and underused vocal cords could muster.
"You are suffering, are you not, my dearest?" The cruel, mocking grin transformed into a cold Cheshire grin, clearly finding this amusing. "Do you not need liberation from this hell? This torment?"
Marik just stared, uneasy. His brain was suspicious, but the poor organ was so rarely operational that the prisoner shoved it to the side, choosing not to listen. He could not move far from the wall, but at a standing position he could extend his arms, reaching for the demon in his room.
The cloaked figure's grin shrank, amusement fading. A smirk was still in place. But the most unsettling thing about him, as he approached the chained Egyptian, was his eyes, blocked off from showing something hovering beneath the surface. Marik desperately fought this bad feeling away; it felt as though his heart was once again beating, something stirring within it that had been dead for years.
The two bodies grew close; almost close enough for the bronzed arms to touch the cloak. Scarlet eyes flashed, and a gruff voice spoke once again, his face now blank. "Miss me?"
"More than anything…" breathed the prisoner.
"Love me?"
"You know I do…"
"Want me?"
"Yes…" he choked out, his hands twitching from being denied touch.
The demon grinned again and stepped forward, stopping a centimeter away from the shaking lips in front of him. He whispered against them, his eyes' guard now removed, showing nothing but venom. "We don't always get what we want."
As the words left his lips, a knife Marik had not noticed pierced his abdomen. The prisoner of the cell let out a loud agonized cry as the knife slid up from his navel to his pectorals, blood gushing from the wound. His eyes, just a moment ago hopeful and with a spark of life, now showed agony, as his legs could no longer support him and he slid down the wall.
From his position as it was a few minutes ago when the dusk hit his face, he lifted his pained eyes to the now evilly grinning man standing above him. He kneeled, at eye level with him. The prisoner coughed, blood coming up with the air and dripped down his chin and the sides of his mouth. "B-… Bakura… Why…?"
""You are suffering, are you not, my dearest? Do you not need liberation from this hell? This torment?"
He laughed the coldest laugh Marik had ever heard, full of sadistic pleasure. He stopped, his face forming an expression of gentle smirking, and he extended a hand to the prisoner's forehead. Gently brushing the hair from his eyes, he murmured, "Are you ready, darling?" The figure's other hand clutched the knife, still glinting somehow even in the lack of light, coated in his blood. "Ready for sleep?" The hand at his face almost lovingly caressed his cheek, tilting the face, which was rapidly loosing colour, to look at him. "Ready to be free from the miserable life to which you are bound?" His smirk grew once more. "At least you can rest easily in eternity… knowing you and the world are better off."
The hand at his face covered his eyes. The prisoner was now panting raggedly, terrified, and now blinded. The last thing his ears heard was a soft whisper in his ear, telling him, "Good night, my love…" before the knife, still wet with his own blood, quickly slit across his throat.
Marik started violently, sitting up erect in his bed. His eyes were wide and he was panting hard, one of his hands instinctively over his abdomen and then throat, making sure he was not really injured. The nightmare again. Worse, this time. Usually it only involved being trapped in the room. Being killed… that was something new.
He stared at the wall, still recovering, as he felt the shift next to him and quiet "Ngh…". Marik diverted his attention with his still wide eyes to the slightly roused tussled head lying next to him. Needing reassurance, he lay himself back down and clung tightly to the now half-awake man to his side, burying his face in the warm chest.
Likely more out of instinct than anything else, the man wrapped his arms around Marik, and held him close. "Mnh… m'rnin…" He mumbled, out of it as always without his morning tea. It had to still be early morning, no light shone from outside the windows, in. Marik once again closed his eyes, the lack of light and the blinds subconsciously almost frightening him.
When he was given no answer, the arms tightened and more clarity coloured the voice. "Mn?" He evidently sensed that something was amiss; rarely was he woken to forceful clinging or given lack of answer to his direct addresses. "Something wrong?" The mass of blond hair just nodded, then nuzzled against the chest. He could hear his heartbeat and slowed breathing, oddly calming him. "What's the matter?" The arms encircling him were gentle, one petting his hair and the other draped around his back.
Marik began to almost feel foolish for letting such a thing affect him. He mumbled, "Nightmare…"
"Mn." Bakura gently kissed the top of his head. "It was just a dream. You're alright. You're here."
"Here…" Echoed Marik. He raised his head and looked at the sleepy yet somewhat alert eyes, and leant in, gently pressing his lips against him. The gesture was returned.
He returned to his spot nuzzling his chest, clinging less strongly to him. "You were in it… It was,.. bad."
A pale hand was gently rubbing the bare tanned and scarred skin of Marik's back. "Dreams are usually metaphorical, you know. There's usually a meaning behind it."
Marik once again shut his eyes, and busied himself with softly kissing the bare chest he was nestled against, wanting very much to distract himself and forget. "I… don't want to think about what that means… Ever…" He frowned to himself.
The Egyptian cuddled up against his partner, breathing back to normal and the etched vividness of the dream fading. He never forgot his nightmares, but he could certainly fight to fade them. After all, it was just a dream… only a dream…