Disclaimer- Yu-Gi-Oh! And all related characters are owned by Kazuki Takahashi, not me. The plot of this little ficlet, however, is my own.

Maktub

Rishid's funeral is to be held today. He was 32 years old. When one thinks of funerals they generally conjure up thoughts of clouds, pouring rain, a black hearse like Pluto's chariot racing across the wastes of Hades. However Rishid's is different. The sun shines, birds are singing, and in the streets of Domino City life carries on as it always has.

At first this angers me. How dare the world be so uncaring! How could the Heavens possibly refuse to weep when Rishid, my servant, guardian, friend, and brother was dead? Then, as I huddle against Ishizu for comfort, I realize something. This is what he would have wanted. Rishid was a humble man. He would not have wished for time to stop because of him.

As they prepare to lower the casket, I risk a fleeting glance at my other half. Mariku looks terrifyingly natural in his black suit. Even I could be fooled into thinking him a normal human being if not for his eyes. My yami's eyes are dead, vacant, soulless things, and they remind of just what he is.

To Marik, Rishid's funeral is just another day. He went through the motions, bowing his head at the church service, laying flowers on the infuriatingly beautiful casket, but the spirit's heart, or rather the thing he pretends is his heart, has not been touched by Rishid's death.

Marik's apathy should anger me, but for some reason I cannot find it in myself to hate him. If anything I pity my yami. He's not a monster anymore. To the best of my knowledge he craves neither death nor darkness. In fact he craves nothing at all. He no longer hates the Pharaoh, me, or…or Rishid…but he doesn't appear to like us either. Marik simply is. Every day he gets up, performs the motions of a daily routine, then goes back to dreaming. There is no variation, no passion. Even is anger seems fabricated.

As they lower my brother into the earth, I can no longer keep the tears from spilling down my cheeks. Ishizu is crying too, though she never loved him as I did. We cling to each other until the service is over, hearing neither the preacher nor the hopeless condolences of our friends.

On the way back to the house she now shares with Seto Kaiba, my sister drops Mariku and myself off at our own apartment. We have lived here together for almost six months now. At first, when Ishizu went off to live with Kaiba, I felt betrayed. Now that we were once more a family, I thought that we needed to stick together. I have since forgiven her. There are certain needs, such as to love someone unlike yourself, which family just cannot fulfill.

As I make to exit the car, Ishizu grabs my arm. "Maktub," she whispers. "It is written." I smile and kiss her on the forehead. To my sister everything is governed by fate. Success and failure are determined by the will of the gods, and Rishid's death was foretold by the variance of the stars. I of course do not believe in this, but it gives Ishizu comfort, so I say nothing.

After she has driven off I turn to find Marik staring at me. His shadowed gaze is harsh, cold, even calculating. So unlike my own eyes, softened by tears.

"Come on," I say a bit too forcefully. "Let's go inside." He doesn't reply, but his lifeless scrutiny haunts me all the way into the apartment. Once inside, I go to take a bath. I truly am a mess. My clothes are rumpled, my hair in tangles. Even my face, flushed and wet from weeping, looks as if it has just been blasted by a wicked rain.

That was exactly what had happened the night of Rishid's death. We had been driving on the freeway, returning from a party where I had gotten viciously drunk. Rishid was driving, and quite suddenly, as he squinted to see the road through a veil of blinding rain, our eyes were assaulted by the glare of an oncoming vehicle. He tried desperately to swerve out of the way, but it was too late. The other car clipped us on the driver's side. Rishid's chest was crushed by the impact, and our car veered off into a ditch.

Sinking into the tantalizingly hot water of the bath tub, I try to remember what happened after that. I remember crawling out through the window, my head throbbing, limbs barely capable of holding me upright. I am ashamed to say that in my state of shock I didn't even think to check on Marik or Rishid. I simply stumbled out onto the road, where I lay gasping for air on the shoulder.

Now that I think about it, it must have been my yami who disentangled Rishid from the wreckage of the car, my yami who, in his horrible deadpan voice, had the presence of mind to call for an ambulance. I suppose there are advantages to being heartless. Though I can only remember brief pieces of that night, I cannot recall a single instance where Mariku was anything but calm and methodical.

As I sit in the bathroom, I realize quite suddenly that the water has gone very cold. Gingerly removing myself from the tub, I glance at the clock. It is nearly nine. I have been in the bathroom for hours. After getting dressed, I make my way downstairs.

"Marik?" No response. Wandering through our kitchen, I finally locate my yami lying passed out on the couch. The TV is playing soundlessly in front of him, its colors casting rainbow-drenched shadows over my yami's face as well as the empty bottles surrounding him.

Only when drunk does Mariku become anything less than stoic. Alcohol brings him to life, makes his gaze shine brighter, his laughter a little more real. How ironic that a substance famous for dehumanizing people can breathe vivacity into the most inhuman person I have ever known.

"Marik?"

"Uhh…" Dazedly he looks at me. "What the hell? I was trying to sleep!"

I roll my eyes. "You weren't sleeping! You're just too drunk to get up!"

Growling under his breath, Marik stumbles off into the kitchen to make himself some coffee. I can hear him clearly, stomping about, setting things down with a little more clatter than is absolutely necessary. I haven't seen him this emotional in quite some time.

"Seriously, Marik. What's your problem?"

He glares at me though bloodshot eyes. "That bastard, Rishid, kicks the bucket and you ask me what's wrong?" He laughs. "I didn't think even you were that stupid, hikari!"

For an instant I want to strike back, defend myself from Marik's cruelly spun words. But what's the point? No matter what I say, my words will never mar the vortex of his heart. I can't touch him. He's too cold.

I am about to go to bed when my yami finally comes for me. He reeks of beer, and the coffee has done little to sober him up. He offers no explanation as he hits me, as he drags me down the steps by my hair and kicks me in the stomach till I scream for mercy. I can't help but beg, yet at the same time I know it's useless. When Marik sets out to do something, he always follows through.

Throughout the beating, Mariku remains eerily calm. He doesn't say anything. His face is a perfect mask of disinterest, yet as he bashes me into the carpet, I sense in my yami an angry desolation, a sort of helplessly ferocious despair that gnaws relentlessly at the back of his gaze. I have never noticed this before…or perhaps I simply never took the time to look. Still, as I begin to black out I am more and more certain that the reason he stays silent is to guard the sorrow in his words.

When I wake up I am alone in my bed. The covers have been tucked tenderly around me and at first I forget what has happened. Then I try to move, and the excruciating agony caused by this brings everything rushing back. The car wreck, my brother's funeral, the beating I have just endured.

Though it hurts just to breathe, I force myself to sit up. It is past midnight, sometime between one and four. I can tell because it is during this time that the night is blackest, and this night is most certainly very black.

A sudden sound catches my attention. Marik is sitting on the floor next to me. He is leaning back on the side of the bed, and I can feel a bit of his hair brushing my past my thigh.

"Marik?"

He doesn't reply, but his breathing grows frantic and more rapid. I cannot see him, yet the tension in his body seems to reach me through the sheer static of the air. It is because of this that I know my yami's crying.

"Marik…" Ignoring the pain, I slide off the bed and crouch down in front of him. "What's wrong?"

His body begins to shudder uncontrollably, and I lay a hand on his hot, tear-stained cheeks. He gasps harshly but takes my hand in his. "Why?" My yami's words seem almost sulfurous in their intensity. "Why are you doing this? It's easier just to hate! Don't you understand that?"

I smile and kiss him softly on his other cheek. I could never hate my yami. Even if he had managed to plunge the world into darkness during Battle City, I couldn't truly hate him. I cannot explain exactly why I love Mariku. Ra knows he has done nothing to deserve it. Still, when I look at him something about his unfeeling, heartless demeanor evokes in me an emotion so strong it could be nothing less than love. I do not feel this way because he was once part of me, for it is terrifyingly easy to hate oneself. Rather, I love him because he is my Mariku. This is as far as I am able to explain it.

He's still looking at me. His hand still clutches mine, and his shoulders shake desperate abandon. Sighing, I pull him into as tight an embrace as I can afford in my current condition. "Please, Marik. Why are you crying?"

He buries his face in my neck and lets loose a long, rattling breath. "Because today I watched a man I have known my entire life be put into the ground…" He pauses.

"And?"

"…and I felt nothing." His voice cracks, and once more my yami is crying.

I spend the rest of the night in Marik's arms, pondering the sadism of destiny. How cruel to deny someone a soul! Yet it is crueler still to, in denying said person of a soul, give them the ability to wish they had one. And they say Mariku is evil! No, the culprit here is fate…fate and that wicked monster providence. Poor Marik. He was destined for damnation from the start.

As if sensing my thoughts, my yami stirs and opens his eyes. In the grey pall of morning his gaze looks different, not brighter exactly but sort of…illuminated. Lips forming something similar to a smile, he takes my hand and places it lightly on his chest. No heartbeat.

"Maktub." He whispers through my tears. "It is written."

-TOT (Okay, this little whopper of a oneshot was written entirely in one sitting. I don't really know what possessed me. I blame it on too much My Chemical Romance and severe writer's block with my other fic. Anyway, the theme is reminiscent of 'Beautiful', only darker. Sad to say, but I have yet to get Yami Marik angst out of my system. The title was inspired by Paulo Coehlo's "The Alchemist". Anyway, I hope you all liked it. Drop a line and tell me what you think!)