Love Will Tear Us Apart
By:AnimeNyan
Pairing: Bronzeshipping -Yaoi- (Yami Marik X Marik Ishtar)
A/N: This is based off of "Love Will Tear Us Apart" By Alaya Dawn Johnson. It's a really good short story, you can find the original story in "Unicorns Vs. Zombies" By: Holly Black and Justine Larbalestier. Most of this writing belongs to her. I haven't seen this short story fixed into the Yu-Gi-Oh! world, so I wanted to try it.
Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! Is owned by Kazuki Takahashi. "Love Will Tear Us Apart" Is owned by Alaya Dawn Johnson. Nor do I own Velveeta...I don't own any brand named things. Or any bands. The only thing I own is the things I changed from the original story.
Warning: Mature language and adult themes. Yaoi. Don't like, please don't read.
Extra Note: I give Little Kuriboh / CardGamesFTW permission to use this story for a dramatic reading.
Think of it as the best macaroni and cheese you've ever had. No neon yellow Velveeta and bread crumbs. I'm talking gourmet cheddar, the expensive stuff from Vermont that crackles as it melts into that crust on top. Imagine if right before you were about to tear in it, the mac and cheese starts talking to you? And it's really cool. It likes Ludo more that Skillet and owns every Avenged Seven Fold album, and saw you in the audience at the latest Arctic Monkeys' concert, though you were too stoned to notice anything but the clearly sub-par cheesy mac you'd brought with you.
And what if he - I mean "it" - were really hot? Tall and lanky and weirdly well muscled, with bright purple eyes and light blonde hair? So, he smells like the best meal you've ever eaten, but you also want to bone him too. Can't have it both ways. You aren't a necro. But a boy's got to eat - maybe you could nibble a bit at the edges? A part he won't miss, and then fuck the rest of him. Eat an arm or something. He can still fuck with one arm. Not that well, though. Probably won't like it. Okay, a hand. Who ever needed a left hand? Then you remember Marik - that's his name, the mac and cheese - plays baseball. That's probably where he got all those yummy muscles. You need to two hands for baseball. A pinky? Damn, you might as well starve yourself.
And you had it all planned out. You and Marik have shared an art class for the last three weeks. You were going to admire the mobile he's been making (A twisted metal tower dangling with shattered CDs, broken pencils, and beer tabs), look deep into his eyes, and invite him back home with you to play Halo or smoke hash or whatever, and then devour him in the woods off of Route 16. Those woods are the local hunting range. You've done it at least a dozen times before, though not to your actual classmates at Domino High, your newest school. Liking your meal too much to kill him? That's a first.
"Pizzicato Five?" you say, catching on to the tail end of Marik's sentence. "Who're they?" His eyes light up. Not literally, but they get really large and you can see the purple of his irises all spangly and flecked around his dilated pupils. Bug eyes, you usually call that look. "Dude, they're awasome," he says. "Harajuku pop. Yeah, I know, you're thinking about that Gwen Stefani crap, like, 'I totally thought Marik had better taste,' but don't worry, he's the real deal. It's all ironic and postmodern." "Wow," you say, because honestly you can only deal with monosyllables at this point. "Hey, we can walk to my place from here. You wanna come over? I have a few of his albums."
So you don't get anywhere near Route 16. Which is good. You don't want to eat him, and you still smell your leftovers there. The whole thing is weirding you out. You - I don't know - you like him. Like like him. You think you had a older sister once who would say it just like that. You can't remember eating her, but you can't be sure. And what would Marik think if he knew you were some monster who couldn't even remember if he ate his own sister alive? So you try to be engaging and charming and basically not stupid. You get into an argument about Belle and Sebastian. "Sure, I like some of their stuff," he says, smiling as though he knows you don't agree. "The Life Pursuit has some great songs has some great songs on it."
"Twee copies of the Smiths aping Jonathan Richman's airy earnestness and none of his insanity." He laughs, and you stumble on the grass. "Hold back, Ao Aerash," he says. Marik gives you a long look, and there you go again, your heart beating too fast, pupils dilating, and you don't really understand it, but that smell of his? That crusty mac-and-cheese aroma. It just got about a hundred times better. When he breathes in and out it's like he's exhaling the essence of his marrow, the rough gristle in his joints, the blood that pulses as it rushes past the tanned skin by his collarbone.
He's cutting through some woods behind the school, down old deer path or something, and you'v been too busy ogling his butt to pay much attention. "Hey, what street do you live on again?" you ask. "It's off of Boward. I just like to cut through here sometimes. 'I took the one less traveled by, / And that has made all the difference.'" "Dylan?" you guess. He stops abruptly in between two trees that still have about half their leaves. His smile is sort of sad. "Frost," he says, and you don't think it's a good time to mention that you've never heard of him. Probably some emo folkie like Sufjan Stevens. "Ao Aerash," he says, his hands deep down in his pockets. With anyone else it'd just be fidgeting, but with Marik right now, the gesture is more like Please fuck me.
"Yeah?" Your voice is sort of a squeak. You can smell the impending sex like it's a bum in the Domino Park. Then Marik goes and starts laughing again, and takes his hands out of his pockets. "It's funny. Everyone thinks you're weird," he says,"but you're all right, Ao Aerash." "Hey, you too." And you think, okay, a fuck would have been better, but you sort of the like the idea of listening to this Pizzacato Five album with him. He still smells like the best meal you've never tasted.