***First prompt from Thera_Lance over at AO3: "Could you write a pairing prompt (for the Cotton Candy shop you mentioned or Lemonade Stand) about psychoshipping (Yami Marik/Bakura) in where Yami Marik expresses frustration that the Ring Spirit claims to care for Marik while making active attempts to destroy a former piece of him?"***
He lost, and the Shadows consumed him once again. This time, the Ring-Spirit knew he would not escape. He clenched his fist, nails digging into palms, and screamed in rage. That he could lose against the Pharaoh, he who had been in the right, proved that the gods had no justice - only favorites.
The sole response to his enraged outcry was dark, thick laughter. The Ring-Spirit silenced himself, searching the violent and onyx shadows. No one else should be there. The Darkness devoured any consciousness unlucky enough to lose its way.
But then he saw the stark, burning lavender and spikes of gold. "You," The Ring-Spirit sneered.
"Yes. Me." He laughed again.
"What's so funny?"
"It's ironic, don't you think? We fought each other in Battle City, and what good did it do either one of us? We're both here. Trapped. In the Shadows for the rest of existence."
The Ring-Spirit reached into his jacket pocket, pulling a switchblade. "So be it. I can think of worse ways to spend eternity!"
He lunged with the blade. The other Marik dodged each slash. The Ring-Spirit fought with wide, careless strokes of his knife. The stabs were mean to cut into flesh, not pierce into vital points - he was toying with the other Marik, trying to prolong his suffering.
"You dirty bastard," the other Marik growled. "At least drop the knife and give me a fair fight!"
He kicked out, but The Ring-Spirit jumped backwards. It didn't discourage Marik's counterpart. He cartwheeled, filling the gap between them, and kicked out once again. The Ring-Spirit dropped to the shadows below them and rolled.
"Fair?" He spat onto the black floor. "Was it fair to use a god card in a Shadow Duel? No. It was advantageous, so you did it. Because winning is all that counts."
"And who wins this fight? No one! The Shadows!" The other Marik caught The Ring-Spirit's left cheek with a right hook. "Stay down!"
The pale thief spun and crashed into the darkness below. "Bastard." The Ring-Spirit spat blood onto the floor.
"You're a bastard!" Marik's other half screamed. "You attacked me, remember?"
"As if you weren't about to do the same!"
"No," he said, voice unusually calm. "I wasn't."
The Ring-Spirit snorted, wiping a ribbon of blood from his mouth. "You expect me to believe that?"
Marik's other half crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't care what you believe. I only came here because …" The sentence died with a disgusted snort. Marik's other half turned away, the royal-purple cape flowing behind him as he moved.
"To what? To mock me instead of attack?"
A hint of lilac flicked over the other Marik's shoulder. "Tell me it isn't fitting, in a way, that we've both been cast aside like refuse."
"Fitting for you, perhaps, but I deserved better."
Marik's other half rolled his eyes, turning away again. "I really don't know what he saw in you."
The Ring-Spirit stood up. "Who?"
The other Marik faced his adversary again. "You know damn well who."
At that, the Ring-Spirit laughed. "I'll tell you what he saw - opportunity. He wanted to win . . . he wanted to win." The spirit narrowed his eyes. "I regret losing our match against you almost as much as I regret losing against the Pharaoh."
"Hate me that much, do you?"
"I wanted to save him myself - me. Me. Not that asshole Pharaoh."
"How dare you. How dare you pretend you wanted to save him."
The Ring-Spirit took a sweeping step closer. "I don't need to justify myself to you."
"Wrong, you do. Because it wasn't like you and your host - I am Marik! Every time you attacked me - you attacked him."
"It's what he wanted. Why do you even care? That was between me and him."
The other Marik clawed into his own chest, holding the area where his heart rested. "I don't want to care! I want to hate you! But I can't because everything he felt I . . ."
The sentence died in the thick shadows, but the point came through, and the Ring-Spirit stood in the Darkness, shocked, and blinking. He stared at Marik's other half - other half not opposite half - watching the expression crumple the other Marik's face. His eyes were round, begging silently for help. The Spirit remembered the look, remembered it from Battle City when Marik came to him for help, and the Spirit was undone. Both times he was undone, he could never seem to deny that look when Marik gave it to him.
The Spirit reached out a pale hand, brushing his trembling fingertips up the curve of Marik's cheek bone. For a moment, hope shimmered in the other Marik's lilac eyes, but then distrustful fear clouded his irises and he turned away. He walked several paces into the dark and sat down, his cloak pooling around him like a circle of protection.
"They hurt . . . my other heart's feelings . . . hurt."
The Spirit stared at the other Marik's cloak-clad back, knowing that behind the thin, violet fabric, the old scars and the old pain would mar him in the exact same way they had mared Marik. The knife slipped out of the Spirit's fingers. He dropped to his knees, thinking about the Darkness, thinking about the real length of eternity, thinking about what was truly in front of him. It was Marik, the most hurt, most damaged part of Marik, and if the Spirit ever desired to save Marik . . . there'd never be a better opportunity than at that moment.
He crawled, one hand over the other. The Shadows slowed him, made the trek take centuries instead of moments, but they had eternity, and when he reached Marik's other heart, the Spirit wound his arms around the other Marik's body, resting his forehead against the other Marik's damaged back.
"What are you doing?"
"Holding you," the Spirit whispered.
". . . Why?"
"Because." He couldn't help the smile on his lips as he spoke softly into Marik's cloak. "I can think of worse ways to spend eternity."