Woot, chapter nine, up a bit earlier than usual because I already did my editing and was excited for it to go up. Back in college, yaaay. That means I'll have less time to write, booo. But anyways, here's nine, and sorry in advance for any confusion the prose may cause. Chapter isn't exactly angsty, but it's very serious. Still T though.

Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh or the song "Friday."


Chapter Nine: Sittin' In The Back Seat

He awakens. He is in bed, lying next to another. The other is still sleeping. He climbs out of the bed gently, as to not awaken the man. It is the only time he has ever used the word to describe himself. He knows he is anything but.

He eyes his own nakedness with disgust. Clothes are strewn haphazardly across the floor, like two horny teenagers had possessed the room in place of the ones that woke up in it. It is silly. It's not like the two have never done this before. There is no reason to make a mess of it. He picks up something that looks wearable, something he vaguely remembers his body having worn earlier. He doesn't remember much when he's not in control, and what he does isn't spent on useless things like clothing. His attention is on planning, on noticing small things, and wondering when the next best time to strike would be.

He exists the room quietly, without disturbing the other. The first victory he has experienced thus far. It's been a long time since he's won. His last victory seems so far away it's almost hazy. He knows that he can best the two of them, though. He's done so once before, and he'll do it again now.

He's not really sure what to do first when he's out in the living room. It's a small space, scarcely decorated with a few surprisingly humble pieces of furniture and only one window. It's not a permanent fixture. The two of them are constantly moving around and accumulating small areas like this in various countries, building up a tiny empire of spaces. "So we'll always have a getaway hideout," The spirit says. He's not really sure where he is now. How far away from Japan? How far away from Domino? When he stops and thinks, he doesn't even know if he wants to go to Domino. Would they still be there? Would anyone be there? How long has it been now since he's last had control? He can't remember. It's getting harder and harder to take over.

There's a noise from the hallway, and he is instantly alert. The sound of a door opening. He is furious. Every single time, every single time, it always happens like this. He looks around the cramped space he is in, but he cannot find the door. The house is unfamiliar to him. They have just moved some time recently, and he does not know where all the exits are, despite the attention he has paid to his surroundings. He cannot remember. This has been happening more and more frequently with the fewer times he is allowed out. In a second now he will be caught.

Shuffling footsteps inform him that the one he left in the bedroom is about to emerge from the hallway and spot him any second now. He could hide. He doesn't know where the door to the outside is, and he doubts that he would be lucky enough to find it on his first attempt, but there are always other options. He doesn't do anything besides stand firmly in the middle of the room for two reasons. The first is because he does not hide. He has always met every challenge that comes his way head first; it is why he was created. The second is because none of it matters anyways. This will not be the first time he has tried to escape and failed. The other already knows that he's here, knew it from the minute the spot beside him in the bed grew cold. Hiding would only delay the inevitable confrontation between the two of them, and he doesn't want that. The confrontation is something just as ingrained into this tradition as the planning and preparation that comes before it, and the faintest glimmerings of hope that escape will come after.

The spirit comes from the room wearing only unbuttoned jeans. His hair is messier than usual, and he appears tired. His other might think him cute, if the boy were awake to see. But he is not, and so all he feels is a weary tension settling around him as he assesses the man. He can see that he is not as tired and out of it as his outward appearance suggests. His eyes are sharp and focused.

They stare for some time. They wait to see who will make the first move. He bides his time. He has been in this situation many times before, and it is always this man that has stopped him from the escape he dreams of. He regards him now with a grudging respect as well as something akin to apprehension, if he could admit to himself that he is feeling it. He does not want to be too hasty in his decisions. He has finally taken control of the body, and the last thing he wants now is to be sent back to his not so peaceful slumber inside because he was too hurried in his actions to think them through. This isn't something that he's used to doing, but this man has made him learn.

"Malik," The man greets. He feels a surge of something go through him upon hearing the name. It is the closest thing he has to something being his own. He picked it once upon a time for the translation—"king"—and because it reminds him of the word "malice", something that fits so well with him. He is malice embodied, the anger of a young boy forced to endure more pain then anyone should have. It is malice that feeds him and moves him, malice that gives him a purpose. But it is malice now that is choking him to oblivion and the cause of his ruin. Without it he cannot thrive. And his other hasn't been feeling much of late.

"I'm leaving," He announces. The spirit doesn't act surprised by his stark admission. Of course, this has been his plan all along, and it comes as nothing short of expected to both.

"And what makes you think I'll just stand by and let you do that?" The other asks with a quirk of his eyebrow. Like he finds the entire situation hilarious. No doubt he does. It angers him, angers him to the point where he is almost tempted to take those few tantalizing steps forward and place his hands around the slender lily white neck of the other and snap it in two. The action would be easy, but getting close enough to actually do so would be much harder than initial appearance suggests. He knows from previous run-ins with this man that he is stronger than his lithe frame shows. Not that his muscle wouldn't win over in the end, but it would be difficult either way. He forces his anger to subside. He splits his lips into a grin that makes the spirit's own mirth fade a bit.

"Because he's asleep this time. I've been working on ways to temporarily shut off the bond between us. Your precious Marik has no clue what's going on. He thinks that he's sill sleeping peacefully in bed with you by his side," He sneers. If the other is surprised by this, he is careful to let nothing show other than a narrowing of his umber eyes.

This fact is to his advantage. Before, when he had taken over the body, his other was always awake and aware, cognizant of every action he made and idea he thought. In some ways, the bond between them was useful, such as when it allowed him to see through his other's eyes and plan his escape, but the moment he made a move of his own it became downright limiting. His other and the spirit were a nauseating team. While one worked on him from the outside, the other worked from the inside. Only now the situation was in his favor, for there was only one of them to deal with.

"What did you do to him?" The spirit questions, voice harsh. He chuckles a bit. Once this man would have been frightening. Nowhere near as much as himself, but he too has been a fearsome enemy. Now it is funny to see how weak his emotions have made him become. He would never care for another beside himself.

"Not much. You can think of it as a self-induced coma of sorts, or a paralysis. He's trapped in a quiet slumber until I see fit to wake him up. All I've got to do is keep feeding him peaceful thoughts and energy through our bond, and he'll never notice that something is happening until I cut off the supply," He explains, to the spirit's continual displeasure. He can almost feel the ire emanating off the man, directed all towards him, as if he were hoping his foul expressions could cause him some discomfort. "Things won't be so easy this time around, will they? Not without my other's incessant attempts at regaining control. You're on your own now."

"If you hurt him, I'll do more than make sure you're banished to the Shadow Realm again," His companion growls. It is meant to sound threatening, but the warning behind his words don't faze him in the least. He's been to the Shadow Realm before and returned from it after only a year. He was created from the same darkness he was banished to; coming back from it was easy enough. He is not a "yami" in the same sense as the spirit or the infuriating Pharaoh. He's never had his own body, his own form. He and his other are inseparably entwined, and as long as his other still exists then he will as well. All he had to do to return from his banishment was wait for the one who made him to feel that burning fury once more, and then the whispering voice in his head was back. The spirit cannot kill him for the same reason; if he dies, then the other he loves so much will perish as well.

"Hurt him? You mean like this?" The one thing he does know where to locate in this unfamiliar location are the knives. Everyone in the house has an unhealthy obsession with them, and he knows for a fact that his other sleeps with one under his pillow to "feel safe". He grabbed it on the way out, and now slides the stainless steel out of its leather exterior and pushes the blade tip into the pliable bronze of the skin of his arm. He makes an unexpected gasp as skin yields under metal, but the pain of the new wound does not bring it on. It is the sensation he feels, the sensation he has only been allowed to feel now, when he is in control of the body he shares.

The spirit does not find the same fascination in it, for in a second the knife has been knocked out of his fingers and clatters to the ground. He has not even noticed the other move, so concentrated was he on the perception of pain and that he can actually now feel pain.

"Let—him—go!" The spirit hisses furiously. He feels the hands of the other person in the room grab him by the shirt he wears, bunching the fabric up and making it caress the skin he now has. He feels the momentum from the muscles in the other's arms and the force of the wall smashing hard against his back. He laughs at it, because it does not hurt at all but instead feels so good!

"Why would I do that?" He questions after his laughter subsides. "You know what it is like to exist in the corner of some ungrateful brat's mind, forever being shut away and never allowed to actually live. You've felt the same thing as I. We're very similar, you and I, but yet you insist now on keeping me locked away as my other does. Only you're even more of a hypocrite than he. You know what it feels like, you understand. I just want to live. Didn't you?"

"Yeah, I know what it feels like," The man responds shortly. "That's why I took control over my pathetic host. I wasn't going to let him ruin the first chance I've had at being happy since I was locked away in that damn Ring. Unfortunately for you, I just happen to love the same person whose body you're stealing. And I'm not about to just let you walk away with him."

He growls furiously. If there is something he hates more than being some personality defect in the other's mind, it is hearing those words. He hates every time he hears someone mention the loathsome word love, especially when it comes from his other or this person. It is love that is keeping him back from experiencing all this world has to offer. It is love that keeps his other happy, and not full of the beautiful hate he once used to keep company with. It is the love the pathetic tomb robber feels for his other that has always—always!—ruined everything.

He tackles the man to the floor. There is no time for thinking now. He is all action, just like he has always been action, because it is what he was made to be. His other created him to take the actions he was too afraid to, and he has always done so without a qualm or complaint. If his other and every person in this world want to hate him, it is okay, because he has always taken the moves he needs to to get what he wants. He is all action and not waiting and planning, and the planning he has done before now was only a last ditch attempt to get away, no more because there is a body underneath him and he is moving and fighting and taking the action he needs to get away and reach the escape he desires and live the life he deserves to live, a life without worrying about being forgotten and forgetting and slowly fading away until he isn't even darkness but nothingness and even the hate he is created from matters not. He will take action and fight against all of that.

He smashes the palm of his hand into the front of the other's face, grins triumphantly when he feels feeble bones give way under the strength of his brute force. There is blood flowing from the spirit's nose and from his cut arm, and it splatters on the two of them and on the floor as they scuffle, each trying to pin the other down and seek out victory. It excites him, the blood, and he fights with even more fury than he did before. He can feel the blood still in his body—his other's body—pumping through his muscles, supplying them with oxygen, feeding his fire and want. He is fighting for his freedom. He is fighting for his right to exist, a right he has more than deserved with everything he has been through. His other created him because he was too weak. He is not like the other; he is strong. He went through the painful Initiation at the hands of their father when his other could not take it anymore, he killed the man when his other quaked and shook at merely thinking the thought. He battled valiantly against the Pharaoh when his other desired revenge, and he sought to kill all the people that would stop him—them—from getting whatever it was they deserved. He has done all of this, and for nothing. In payment, all he has ever received is a trip to the Shadow Realm and the hate of the very other that birthed him. He deserves to win now, and he knows that he will. How can he not? The spirit merely fights for love, and he knows that it can never be stronger than his hate.

In direct opposition to his thoughts, he feels a stirring. His mind is focused as always on the battle in front of him and beneath him and all around him, but there is a part that concentrates on the bond, feeds his other the happy thoughts and feelings that will keep him asleep. He is consistent in doing this. Even while his malice takes control of his body and mind, he is consistent in feeding those thoughts to his little light. He knows that keeping the brat asleep is key to his victory. But now he feels his other stir, like he can sense that the spirit is losing.

"Marik!"

The spirit apparently can too, for now it is his other's name that he is shouting. This infuriates him more. It is always his other that they call for, always! No one has ever once called for him, because to them, he does not matter. They wish he were gone, banished for good. They wish he no longer existed, and keep him restrained and locked up until he doesn't. He feels his other waking, faster now with the spirit's call, and he feels the urge to kill him. He has never wanted to do this before. He longs to get rid of the other, perhaps banish him to the Shadow Realm, but he has never wanted to kill before. He knows that he and his other are the same person, and even if he hates him as he does, they are still connected, and will forever be. Killing him would essentially be killing himself, and he does not want to die. He wants to escape, but not die. It is only now that he thinks there might not be a difference between the two.

He lunges for the knife that has all but been forgotten in their struggle. He wanted to kill the spirit with his bare hands, but now he has a better idea. The man is distracted and the opportunity to pick it up before he can have a chance to slips through his fingertips. He grabs the knife, pushes the other off him, and stands, blade now pressed against his neck.

He watches as the other man stands, somewhat dizzy from the blood still flowing unrestrained from his broken nose. Whether it is because of the blood loss or because of the surprise at the bold move he is taking, the man's eyes widen in unconcealed shock when he registers how close the knife is to the skin of his beloved. Realizing his mistake, he narrows them quickly and takes up a stance that begets casual confidence, but he already has seen and knows that he's the one with the upper hand now.

"You planning on threatening me now with his life? I know you won't do it. If he dies, so do you," The other scoffs. His smile widens. The spirit does not yet realize that this is the plan. He comes to the conclusion without much trouble, and it enters his expression at about the same time his other awakens fully and sees the situation he is in.

He feels how frantic his other is as he quickly assesses the condition they are in. Something of him must show in his countenance, for the spirit appears that much more worried about the state of things. He feels only how great the entire thing is. For the first time in years, all attention is on him, and they are actually worried. He feels powerful, even more than he had with the God of Ra on his side. He feels now like a god himself, holding the fate of ones life in his crushing hands.

"Malik, let him go," The spirit says slowly. He shakes his head even as his other screams at him to listen. But he is listening. He is listening to what he wants.

"I don't think so. I'm tired of this. I don't want to spend my life as just some separate personality. I exist. I desire to live, not just remain locked away until no one remembers me and I fade away. I'm already forgetting things, or falling asleep and waking up with no notion of how much time has passed since I last was awake. I want to escape. I want to be. And I won't get to with you in the way, or him," He says.

"Killing yourself isn't going to get you away, you fool! You'll just be dead!"

"You died, didn't you? Yet here you are."

"And I had the misfortune of being sealed into one of the same artifact that was made with the sacrifice of my entire village!" Inside his head he feels his other flinch. The bond tells him that the spirit doesn't often talk about his past, and his other nearly wells with emotion for the man. He sneers in disgust. He doesn't want this anymore. He doesn't want to feel his other's emotions for this man, or hear his thoughts, or have to deal with any of this. Not anymore.

"From one prison into another. It's not bad, especially if I don't have to deal with you or him anymore," He says unpleasantly. His other shouts something at him through their shared bond, but he isn't paying attention to his words anymore. He shoves the knife further against the skin of his—their—throat to shut him up. He can feel a drop of what can only be blood slid down his skin. The spirit's eyes follow it before they return to his face.

"Marik, can you here me?" The spirit is looking right at him, but he is no longer talking to him, and it maddens him. Even now he is ignoring him! He points the knife tip deeper into his skin, and now a small rivulet of blood is soaking the collar of the shirt he chose to wear. The other only pays it mind for a second where his confidence falters. Then it is back, and he is determined once more. It shows in his stance and his eyes, and the turn of his face.

"There's nothing more I can do here, Marik. The rest is up to you. You're going to have to fight him."

He scoffs. He knows this will not work. He feels his other start to fight against the bindings he has him in, but his struggles are as useless and small as the flutters of a butterfly trapped in the mesh webbing of a net. He is the one in charge here, and he will not allow himself to falter. He'll kill them both before his other has even a chance to escape and regain control.

He opens up the bond between them completely. This is a risky maneuver. It will allow his other to reach him easier, but it was also allow any and all pain he inflicts on the body to reach him. His hope is that this will stop his other from fighting. He knows that he has never been one to enjoy pain. It was the entire reason behind his creation.

The plan works. As he digs the knife in deeper to his flesh, he feels the mental recoil of his other. He smirks gleefully and knows that it will be soon now. But while he has been paying attention to his victory over the rightful owner of the body he resides in, he has forgotten about the spirit, and the man's mass comes crashing down on him and knocks him to the floor. The knife is flung out of his hands and lands far enough away that he cannot reach it without moving. He tries to dislodge the man atop him, but he is stubborn, and in his stubbornness seems to weigh much more than he ever has before.

"Marik! You need to get control back! I can't hold him here forever, dammit!" The spirit screams. There is a hint of desperation in his voice that resounds in his head and reaches his other, and serves to make his fighting all the more frantic. He is being attacked on all sides now, and it is infuriating, because he fears that he will once again lose this battle.

"I'll kill you!" He rages. "I'll kill you and then I'll kill him too!"

"You won't," The spirit responds with all the calm of the eye of a hurricane. "You won't, because he won't let you.

"He is nothing! He's weak compared to me!"

He is thrashing wildly and without any sense of plan or coordination now as he feels the fight in his other increase. It is like just by speaking with each other, the two are able to give each other some strength that he lacks. He still has not been able to move the other man from atop him, and he knows that he should have been able to minutes ago. He is getting weaker. He is starting to fade with the stronger the two of them get.

"He's not weak! That's why he doesn't need you any more! That's why you never win!"

"He's weak!" He continues to rage, even in the face of all that suggests otherwise. It is like if he can win this last verbal fight, he'll win them all and finally have the freedom he desires and the right to exist as he wishes. "He's weak, and that's why he created me! Because he can't do anything by himself! Do you hear me, little light? You can't do anything by yourself! You'll never get rid of me! You need me!"

"Then why are you the one that's fading? Why is it that the only time you can take over now is when he's sleeping, or when something has reminded him of his past?" The spirit screams with as much strength as his body weighs down upon him with. Blood from his nose has trailed down to his lips, and it is blown at him along with the words and lands just as heavily down. His cheek crawls where the liquid has touched down. He feels like he has been infected, and something is eating away inside of him, gnawing away the tiny little bits of him that make him him and not his other. He is losing it, and he still cannot get up.

"He'll never get rid of me! I'll always be there as long as he remembers, as long as he's still afraid!"

"Then I'll help him," The spirit says quietly. The anger from his voice has disappeared and traveled all up to his eyes and expression. His tone is queerly monotone. "I'll help him get over it all. If he's afraid, then he can come to me instead of you. If there's something that he can't do on his own, then I'll help him learn how to accomplish it. He doesn't need you anymore, because he has me. He doesn't need your hate. He doesn't need it because I love him."

The words shatter him like some centrifugal force starting in his center. His eyes widen and he feels his other burning strongly, and he shies away from the fire and the light of him. He doesn't want to go, but he's afraid. It takes him a while to comprehend the feeling, but it is an instinctual one and even creatures like him have instincts. He is afraid of being burned by that light. He is afraid and this time it is his weak, weak other that rises to the occasion. He is cast away. He retreats to the innermost part of his other's mind, the smallest, darkest part that he can find to hide away from the light. It's been slowly diminishing, his domain, but for now there is still shelter and sanctuary. He retreats here, and as he sees through his other's eyes and feels a weary smile tug on his other's lips as he looks upon the equally tired face of the spirit, he sinks into himself. He needs to sleep. He does not want to, because he does not know when he will wake up next, or if he will wake up at all. His time is short, and he knows this. Even shorter now with this crushing failure. He can feel burns all around him from the light, and it will take some time to recover. He feels so weak now. When he awakens next, will he even be able to take over once more? He cannot think now. The only thing on his mind is sleep, and he succumbs to it.

00000

Bakura sat in the bed with Marik's head resting in his lap. It had been a few hours since Malik took over, but the wounds were bandaged and the house cleaned, and Marik had finally fallen asleep. He was always mentally and physically exhausted when his other personality came out to play, but it usually took much longer than this for Bakura to finally convince him to head off to bed. Tonight was especially draining. It's the only reason he's asleep right now, and not fluttering about the house and worrying about the damage he caused, both to the house and Bakura himself.

Following his current train of thought, his eyes trailed down to the bandages covering Marik's neck. For a second, his adrenaline elevates as he remembered just how Malik had looked, standing there with the knife against his throat, blood dripping down to the floor and dyeing his skin red, but the image faded faster than he thought it would. His own nose is sore and still a bit bloody. Marik wanted to go to the hospital and have it checked out immediately, but he managed to convince the blonde hurricane that it would be better to do so tomorrow. Right now, all he wanted to do is sit here and watch Marik sleep. Of course he was tired himself, but, stupid as it was, he didn't want to go to sleep. He was still worried that Malik would decide he hadn't tormented them enough and would come back.

Bakura sighed. If he wanted to be truthful, he wasn't just tired; he could hardly keep his eyes open. But every time they closed he kept seeing Malik with the knife, but it wasn't Malik at all. It had been Malik when it happened, but he'd been able to see Marik there in his eyes. He had been so afraid, and that made Bakura more afraid than anything else that had happened. The two of them hadn't really needed to fear Malik for quite a few years now, but tonight had reminded both of them of those unpleasant days when they'd first moved away from Domino and almost every night was interrupted by a visit from the psychotic yami.

His fingers carded through Marik's blonde hair like it were made of silk. Even while the rest of him was beaten and bruised, he still had no tangles in his hair. It was almost funny enough to make him laugh for the first time since he'd gotten Marik back. He couldn't find it in him to do so, however. The event was still fresh in his mind like a newly picked scab.

For a terrifying moment, he'd been this close to losing the one thing that made him want to keep living his eternal life. In that moment he'd been more terrified of losing Marik than he had of anything else that had happened in his thousands of years of life.

"You idiot," He whispered to the mess of sleeping blonde in his lap. Aforementioned idiot squirmed in his lap, like he was experiencing a bad dream. Bakura's hands continued to soothe his hair, and soon enough all movement stopped and Marik was again dead to the world.

"You better not worry me like that ever again," He continued. "I don't think my heart can take it." If he had a heart, or course it would have decayed a long time ago. He was essentially immortal, but also just a wandering soul and nothing more. He had no body to love with except for that he stole. But sometimes he forgot that when he was with Marik, and he could almost feel the phantom organ beating again.

He bent down and kissed the other male softly on the head before sinking down gratefully into the bed. The sun was peeking through the blinds covering the windows, and in a few hours Marik would be waking up. He never slept for a long time after Malik took over. For right now though, before the flurry of activity began, Bakura was more than okay with sitting here and relaxing. He leaned back and contentedly ran his fingers through Marik's hair.


Umm, so this one's pretty cool because I only had a vague idea of what I wanted to do, but it ended up pretty sweet either way. I would definitely like to hear what people think about it, and if it's good or too confusing or whatnot. I think I messed up in tense a bit in the section at the end, because I kept writing in present tense as I had been in the first part and not past, but I think I fixed all of my mistakes. If not, then just tell me, and I'll fix it. Sorry for any mistakes though, as tense changes wind up confusing me a lot.

Also, is it just me, or do all my endings suck? I swear I've forgotten how to write ones that aren't corny. Next chapter is going to have everyone dead. I'll pull a Shakespearean tragedy. Haha, noo, I don't think I'll really do anything like that XD Besides, things are already angsty/serious enough as it is. Chapter ten is also going to be in that category, but I have a feeling you guys will be excited for it ;D Well that's really it then, so bye-bye, I'll see you next week! Please remember to review, and thanks!