A/N: Hey guys it's YG! This is my psychoshipping entry for the first round of Computerfreak101's contest. Hope you like it!
Notes: Yaoi! YMxYB. Mentions of YMxYY. This takes place in an AU during the Revolutionary War.
Disclaimer: If I owned it then I wouldn't be writing fan fiction now would I?
A Touch of Insanity
The murky, over cast sky blotted out the sun, as though it were trying to smother all hope. The dank air was heavy with the lingering scent of gun powder and death. A single body lay broken at the base of the gray wall, his pooling blood creating a crimson pathway as his bullet ridden corpse was dragged away. The gore crows sung their eerie tunes.
The hollow eyes of his executioners followed his departure, guilt radiating from their haggard faces. All of them cried in mental anguish at the unfit death of such a courageous soldier. All of them but one.
Sharp brown eyes followed the mangled body as a dark tongue flicked out between two pail lips, as though it was tasting the bloody air. A hand reached up and brushed a stray white bang out of the smirking gunman's vision. He wanted to see.
A black crow shot out from the leafless branches of a nearby oak, its dark silhouette a hazy blur as it streaked across the gray horizon and landed upon the wavy hair of the fallen victim. An intake of breath, a quick, darting motion and the corpse's vacant, bloodied eye was lifted from its motionless socket and resting safely in the crow's gaping maw.
A cry of anguish was heard from the prisoners, lined neatly against the far corner of the wall, like the keening of some wounded animal. The soldiers that had been dragging the prone form yelled and flapped their hands about, startling the small winged creature. With a muffled squawk and a frantic flurry of black wings, the crow took flight, his sightless prize clutched tightly in his beak. The white haired soldier smiled.
"Faces forward men! Load your guns!" the commander cried, voice strained as the arduous toil with which his station was assigned began to way upon his sanity. The one-eyed body finally vanished from view, and a new shackled victim was brought forth, his blonde head bowed so that nothing of his expression could be seen. A guard led the prisoner to a crimson streaked stretch of concrete were his fellows before him had met their ends. Once the body was positioned the shallow faced soldier stepped back and the commander spoke once more, this time to the doomed man. "Do you wish to hear your last rights so that God may have mercy upon your soul?" he called over the distance between them. Silence was all that followed. "Did you hear me? Do you not wish to save your soul from eternal damnation?!"
"I have no soul." The prisoner replied in a hoarse whisper. The matted blonde head turned upwards and a pair of hollow lilac eyes locked with the slightly shocked gaze of the white haired soldier. Even though many years of strain and gore now coated his thin form, there was no mistaking the familiar face and eerie violet irises. "Marik…" the pail soldier whispered, narrowing his previously widened eyes and concealing his shock and confusion behind a mask of impassivity.
"Hello…Bakura…" the prison sneered, eyes alighting with some indefinable, feral glint as the name passed his dry, parched lips.
"No talking!" the commander ordered, trying his best to look intimidating though the strain of death showed clearly on his disheveled face. "I'll ask again! Do you wish to hear your rights?!" Once more, he was ignored.
Shiny violet and murky brown remained glued upon one another and a crooked smirk twisted the prisoner's exotic face, madness radiating like fire in his eyes. "It's good to see you again." Marik murmured.
Bakura did not respond. He did not flinch, or blink or even breathe. His expression remained hard and stony as he scrutinized the man before him. How much he'd changed since their last meeting… how long ago it now seemed, though the day could not have been but a year or two ago. The white haired soldier closed his brown eyes and let his mind wonder, let loose his memories to entrance his befuddled mind and heart. Days, weeks and months flew past him with each breath until he no longer stood in the crimson splattered grayness of the concrete pavilion.
Pain. A white hot dagger of agony. It filled Bakura's body, his mind, and the void which was once his thoughts. Endless, excruciating, mind numbing, it flowed through his veins like poison. There was no emotion, no thought, nothing but the pain and the excruciating ecstasy that came with it. The screams of his fellows echoed grotesquely in the uncommonly still air, but Bakura could not hear them. He could not discern anything but the rapid pounding of blood in his ears and the ragged breaths of tainted air he greedily swallowed. He did not even register when the voices died away and his comrades' writhing bodies went still. Nor did he notice the creeping blackness that stole over the sky. Time held no meaning in the world of pain, for each second might have been a lifetime and each minute that slowly sloshed by felt like a millennia. And with each faint beat of his pleading heart, his being slipped closer to oblivion.
Suddenly, something cool and wet trickled slowly down the side of his feverish face. 'Water.' Bakura's pain riddled mind managed to conclude. 'It's raining.' The tiny droplet was followed by another, then another and soon it seemed as a rift in the clouds had opened, the sky belching its freezing contents on to the corpses strewn about the battle field. The blood drenched earth upon which Bakura lay soon morphed into a pit of watery mud which soaked into the soldier's clothes. A few droplets sprinkled into his gaping mouth, coating the insides of his dry throat with moister. The rest fell about him like a cascade of icy tears, rinsing the dried crimson blood from his pail face, plastering his sodden white hair to his forehead, cooling his feverish skin and numbing his limbs. A small sigh escaped his lips. Suddenly the flow of soothing liquid ceased and Bakura groaned in protest, the heat and pain instantly wrapping its sharp claws around his body. Mustering what strength he had, the soldier cracked his eyes open a sliver and gazed into a pair of bright violet orbs. "Are you alive?" the words came slowly to Bakura's befuddled brain, as though he was receiving them from the end of a badly tuned radio. "Are you alive?" the voice asked groggily once more. "Y-yes." The soldier managed to force the answer through the murky depths of his mind, through the pain and past his rain drenched lips. Then darkness took him.
Light. He could feel it shining on his face, outlining his still form with its gray incandescence. Two small slits of brown shone out from underneath pail eyelids. Immediately the blinding light assaulted his pupils and the soldier hissed, squinting against the obnoxious glare. His first feeling was of a blazing fire that emanated from his very core, lacing its white hot fingers around his body, wrapping him in a cocoon of impenetrable heat. Bakura groaned, a trembling hand reaching up to stroke the heated, bumpy field of sweat that was his skin. The small movement sent his entire being into a state of total exhaustion. He groaned again pulling the rough, sweat dampened covers closer to his shivering form. 'Wait…covers?' his dazed mind noted that there was something wrong about that, but what exactly? Bakura struggled to force his fever filled brain to remember.
The blurry image of a battle field swam before his eyes. The cries of the wounded and the dying wove between the thunderous booms of cannon fire and the constant barrage of gun shots, like an eerie, discordant melody. Sooty black dust, residue from the burly weapons, shrouded half the field in shadow, so that the gore filled battle stood in sharp contrast to the inky darkness. His dull thoughts slowly reconstructed an acute pain beneath his ribcage and the warm sensation of trickling blood that oozed down from his wound. Through the hazy fog of fever he could see, from his minds eye, the dark cloud lift to reveal a mangled field of desecrated corpses and blacked, burnt weaponry. Screams filled the air, pleads that intertwined with the kneeing of gore crows above. Bakura could recall the chilling sound emanating from his own throat as he lay in a thicken pool of his own blood. In his memories he recounted the hours spent calling until all eventually when still, and he remembered the cool water droplets that numbed the fire in his limbs and the violet eyes that filled his vision and the voice that whispered frantically "Are you alive?"
Bakura shot up like a bullet, realization coursing through him. The action had not been completely thought through however. A blinding pain shot through his body, both electrifying and strength zapping as white flashed before his eyes. A screech ripped through his torn throat as his broken body fell back in a heap on the straw mattress.
Frantic footsteps preceded the arrival of the blonde haired youth that bent over the groaning soldier's form. Something wet and cool was placed against Bakura's feverish forehead and the white haired teen sighed slightly at the soothing touch. "Are you alright?" a voice asked urgently from above him. He knew that voice. Lifting his heavy eyelids, Bakura gazed into the terrified gaze of his rescuer. Two rich pools of violet gazed back at him, searching his expression. "Fine." Bakura managed to choke out, the simple phrase sapping the strength from his trembling form. "Good." The lilac eyed youth muttered. The cloth was pulled away for a moment, only to return to his forehead drenched in more icy liquid. After a minute or so, Bakura's ragged breaths settled down into an even rhythm and he mustered up enough strength to mutter hoarsely "How…?"
The tanned boy beside him understood his meaning, despite the vague phrasing. "I heard the gun shots from a mile away....I thought I see what the commotion was about. When I arrived everyone was…" he voice trailed away uneasily, but Bakura had no need for explanations. "I searched for survivors and I found you, still breathing, still alive…" the violet eyed teen smiled shyly. "You were drenched. You'd lost so much blood…I didn't know if you'd make it back but…you did… You've been in bed for a week with fever, muttering in your sleep all the time. I've was hoping to ask you, when you did wake…what's your name?" violet and brown peered curiously at one another. "Bakura." The white haired soldier grunted. "Bakura." The name slipped from between the blonde's lips. "Hello Bakura…I'm Marik." He smiled gently once more. "Marik." Bakura tasted the words, wrapping his mouth around it and savoring the tangy feel the syllables possessed. "Thank you…Marik." He murmured, before sleep wrapped its silky tendrils around his consciousness and he drifted peacefully into the painless void.
Six months. It had been six months since that fateful battle. Six month's spent in the tiny cottage cradled in the woods next to ever rushing stream. Six months spent riding out the winter beside the crumbling embers of the fire and at last dancing through the trees as the first blooms of spring painted the fields. Six months of Marik.
A smile, small but visible was all that adorned Bakura's face these days. Whether he was hoeing the garden, reading by the fire, or teaching his Egyptian roommate how to use a rifle, the miniscule grin was always present upon his lips.
He smiled now as he watched Marik try and fail miserably to shoot a passing sparrow. The blonde Egyptian swore and threw the rifle to the ground, muttering curses under his breath as he kicked moodily at one of the many small stones that littered the clearing in which they stood.
"You're aiming too high!" the white haired teen called over to his fuming friend.
"What?!" Marik cried back, cupping a hand around his ear and wrinkling his thin eyebrows.
"Try lowering the gun!" Bakura shouted. A helplessly confused stare was all the reply he received. Bakura rolled his dark brown eyes exasperatedly, and shook his head, his ever faithful grin still plastered on his face as he gently folded the corner of the page in the book lying open in his lap. Setting the novel aside, the white haired teen stood, dusting the legs of his pants before striding over to Marik, who by now was glaring daggers at the gun which lay abandoned in a tangled knot of overgrown weeds.
"It' useless." The violet eyed boy grumbled as Bakura reached into the thicket and extracted the fallen weapon. "That stupid gun refuses to work!"
"It'll work if you would just aim it properly." Bakura replied gently, fully aware of the Egyptian's fiery temper. "Here, let me show you." Placing the gun in the still grumbling teen's hands, Bakura stood behind him and placed his arms over his friends as he attempted to guide his limbs to the appropriate position. "Now…" he whispered in the blonde's ear as he rested his chin in the crease between Marik's neck and collar bone. "…you want to lift the rifle so that the length of the barrel is directly beneath your line of vision." He lifted the other's tanned arms to the correct spot. "Target your quarry." The gapping hole at the end of the barrel lined up perfectly with the twittering bird above. "And fire…" Marik's finger pulled back and a resounding crack filled the clearing, silencing the sparrow which dropped from the sky like dead weight and sending a hundreds of its fellows out of their nests and into spiraling hysterics in the sky. "I did it." Marik whispered, a brilliant smile lighting up his features. "Yeah…you did…" Bakura murmured in his ear. The two remained frozen in their stances, both acutely aware of how close their bodies were and neither willing to leave the position. After a moment or two, however, Bakura heaved a sigh and released the Egyptian's arms, moving backwards only to be stopped by a strong hand on his shoulder. He spun around to face Marik, whose violet eyes were gleaming with some fiery passion that Bakura couldn't quite place. That was, until he felt he blonde's lips crush against his own.
It was as though all reason and sanity had been lost. All the alarms ringing in Bakura's brain were silenced by the rapid thudding of his heart and the pulsating heat that radiated through out his body. And soon he was kissing back, his lips fierce and pleading. Marik's growled, hands traveling up Bakura's spine and twisting in his locks of silky hair. Bakura's arms snaked around Marik's waist as he felt himself being forced backwards. His back collided painfully with the rough bark of a tree and he and the Egyptian slid slowly down the trunk, lips never ceasing their ferocious battle. When the need for air was too great to ignore the two broke apart, panting heavily and gazing at each other through lust filled eyes. "Are you ready for this?" Marik whispered, head resting against Bakura's own as his fingers slid slowly up and down his sides. Bakura's curt nod was all the permission he needed. Their lips met once more.
(A/N: Sorry but I don't do lemons or anything more sexual than that. Leave the rest up to your imagination.)
The soldiers came from the east. At first they appeared as a small dot on the horizon, but as their forces drew nearer they grew like a swelling tide until the hills were coated with their black forms. Bakura was a half mile or so down the stream from his and Marik's cottage, buying groceries in the little village that was nestled there when he heard about their coming. The whisper swept through out the town as the though the wind itself faired it along. "The soldiers are coming. They will soon be here." When the message finally reached him, the white haired teen felt his blood run cold. The bag of groceries slipped through his limp arms as his eyes clouded over in fear. He turned on his heal and fled from the town, not paying any heed to the anxious calls that followed his flight. All he knew was that he had to get out of there and fast!
He traversed the distance between the village and his cottage in half his usual speed. Marik stood in the garden, harvesting the last of their crops before the winter's creeping chill could mangle them further. At the sound of Bakura's footsteps he spun around, cheerful smile quickly replaced with an expression of anxiety and fear as he beheld Bakura's frantic state. "What's wrong?!" he called, dropping his basket of vegetable and rushing to his trembling lover's side. Bakura collapsed into the Egyptian's chest, burying his face in the coarse material of Marik's shirt as his panted heavily from the strain of his run. "Soldiers…" he managed to mutter between gasps. "In the village…by nightfall…couldn't stay…find me…"
"Shhh." The lilac eyed boy whispered soothingly pulling the other over to the porch and setting him down gently in a rocking chair. "Tell me what's wrong."
Taking a few moments to regain his composure, the white haired boy said "The soldiers will be in the village by nightfall. I couldn't stay or they could find me. I'm alive and well and my contract with the army hasn't been fulfilled yet… If they find me they might make me reenlist or worse…" he muttered, hot tears building in the corners of his murky brown eyes. "…they could kill me for abandoning the cause…they'd consider it treason."
Marik rapped his arms securely around the teen as sobs racked his entire body. "I don't want to go back." Bakura moaned into Marik's shoulder as the gruesome images of carnage and death he had witnessed last year flashed before his eyes. "You can't let them take me…" "Shhh." Marik soothed, stroking the other's soft white locks. "I won't let them find you. Shhh beloved, you are safe with me." The two sat huddled together as Bakura's flood of anguished tears began to thin and eventually reduced to dry, rattling sobs. When Bakura had regained his composure, Marik starred him strait in his red and swollen eyes. "I will go to town for you." He whispered, brushing a stray lock of hair out of his pail face and tucking it behind the other's ear. "I will go so that they cannot find you and I will bring you what news I can." He stroked the side of the brown eyed boys face and grinned warmly. "As long as I live, I shall not let them hurt you." And so it began.
Every day Marik would ride off to the village to shop or gain information that the soldiers alone knew and that leaked into the settlers' gossip through the cracks in the army's seemingly impenetrable secrecy, and every day Bakura would run mindlessly through his chores, eyes always darting to the road for a familiar patch of platinum blonde. At first, the Egyptian always returned by noon, a bright smile lighting up his previously darkened features as he spotted Bakura sitting diligently on the front porch waiting for him. But as the weeks dragged on, he came back later and later, always blaming his tardiness on the frivolous pleasantries that courtesy demanded or the length of the trail to and from the village. At first Bakura accepted his stories without question, for what reason would his love have to lie to him? But time went by and Marik was seen less and less until one night he didn't even return.
Panic writhed in Bakura's gut as he gazed out the darkened widow. Judging by the moon's arch it had to be at least two in the morning and still, Marik was no where to be found. What if something had happened to him?! An image of Marik lying in a leaking pool of crimson, abandoned and lifeless at the end of a black alley morphed inside Bakura's mind's eye and he shivered involuntarily. "Don't be stupid!" he whispered irritably to himself. "You're just overreacting! Marik's fine, he'll be home any minute." he tried to convince himself, directing his attention forcefully to the page he'd been trying to read for the past hour. But the nerves in the pit of his stomach refused to be ignored and even more violent images formed in his psyche until he could no longer take it. Forgetting completely that he might be seen by one of the soldiers, he marched to the far wall, grabbed his rifle, shoved his grimy boots on and strode purposefully out the door.
The walk to the village seemed to last an age to Bakura. Ever shadow, ever little rustle sent and pang through his gut and he gripped the rifle with even tighter force. His only comfort was that the entire journey he did not once see a familiar form lying broken beside the road.
At last he reached the tiny town and immediately began scouring the alley ways and darkened corners for a familiar streak of blonde. After several moments of frantic searching, the muffled sounds of some commotion emanating from an alley way gripped his attention. His breath caught in his throat as his heart hammered madly in his chest. Raising the rifle to eye level and gripping the weapon with trembling limbs, Bakura rounded the corner in one fluid motion.
The sight that met him shook his soul to the very core.
A teenager stood, pressed to the wall of the alley, his garb was that of a poor, lowly foot soldier. His hair was a wild mane of spiky red timed ebony locks and lightening like blonde bans that shot up into the into the black and red, or fell down, framing the boy's chiseled face. And there, pressing his mouth to the foot soldier's was Marik. His blonde hair gleamed in the pail moonlight as he wrapped his arms around the shorter male, gliding his fingers along his sides.
An icy knife pierced Bakura's heart as he took in the scene before him and without thinking twice he dashed forward. He twisted his hands into Marik's blonde mane and yanked his face away from the other wild haired teen. A cry of pain broke the stillness of the night air and tear filled violet met enraged brown. The pail boy screamed as Bakura kicked Marik hard in the stomach and threw him roughly to the ground. A resounding thud echoed through the alley as Marik's head met concrete and he went still.
"Marik!" the boy against the wall cried in an anguished voice. Bakura turned slowly to face soldier, meeting his terror filled crimson gaze before lifting his rifle and pulling the trigger back. The shot rung through the entire village, it seemed to shake the houses to their very foundations. A sharp breath escaped the boy before his crimson eyes slid shut and his body crumpled in a heap on the ground. Lights were flickering on in the surrounding houses as anxious voices called about in confusion. And Bakura ran.
He ran straight out of the village and down the lane, past the stream and trees and fields, nothing but his own emotions guiding his path. Betrayal, hurt, anger and an animal need to tear the world to shreds stole over him. An owl hooted mournfully in the still air. A swift movement, a resounding bang and the bird's dark silhouette plummeted down from the black sky. A rustling of leaves alerted Bakura of a rabbits approach. Point, bang, and the animal went limp. A dog howled off in the distance. Point, bang, and the anguished cries were silenced. Again and again Bakura fired, until nothing but the constant shots of his rifle could be heard. And he laughed. A wild, chilling sound. He laughed as tears rained down from his eyes and the blood of his victims pained his hands.
Laughter. Sweet and pure, it rang through out the night air. A child was strolling along the side of the road, completely oblivious to the slaughter going on around him. Point, bang, and the little body collapsed, the echoing of his musical giggle resonating eerily in the still air. And Bakura laughed. He raced towards the body and peered down at the innocent, blood streaked face. Bending over he wiped a drop of crimson off on his finger and stuck it in his mouth, savoring the metallic, acrid taste. Tears cascaded from his murky brown eyes as his insane laugher filled void. Noticing a glint of light beside the fallen child, Bakura reached down and lifted up a piece of broken glass. He smiled at his wild reflection in the little mirror before bringing the corner down on his wrist and slowly pulling it across his skin. Crimson blood bubbled up from the wound and Bakura smiled, and laughed, and licked at it greedily with his dark tongue. He sliced his other wrist and sipped the red juices that poured out as his vision became blurry. He fell to his knees, still laughing, still crying, still licking the crimson from his wrists. The world spun around him and he finally collapsed on the ground, his last thoughts of just how beautiful the little child looked covered in crimson blood.
Bakura opened his eyes. The commander and his men had found him the next morning and he had joined their forces in order to escape persecution for his crimes. He'd remained there ever since, never giving his real identity. And now the only tie left to his past stood all too vulnerably before him. A gentle smile touched his lips as the commander ordered "Ready!" His gaze locked with Marik's own, a feral glint in his eyes. "Set!" he raised the gun to eye level. "Bye bye birdie!" He sang softly to himself. "Fire!" the shots rang through out the concrete pavilion and the body crumpled to the ground. A smile stretched Bakura's face as an insane laugh tore through his lips. And the gore crows descended, singing their eerie tunes.
A/N: Hope you liked it! Please R&R! Or not…whatever…