Clash
by Lethe Seraph
Chapter Four: A Poet, To Be Sure
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Sorry! It's short, I know. No worries, though! ^____^
Many thanks to those who have reviewed!
I shall make the next chapter longer. I hope. -_-;;;;
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How much do I know about him?
How much do I honestly know about anyone?
Appearance, yes; I recall every detail –
But then, that is my job. I would be dead if I didn't have the memory I did… well, I would have died sooner, anyway.
The child is a bound, breathing collection of paradoxes and illogicalities.
A life spent underground – smooth, tanned skin.
Gleaming violet eyes lined with darkness.
A burning desire to defeat me.
Instead, he spared my life.
How strangely the world works.
If everyone were like him, all would cease to function underneath the weight of millions of conflictions.
Not that I should comment; he learned it from me.
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What am I doing? thought Malik as he leaned closer to Bakura. Every second seemed to last an eternity. Eternity, that is, being defined as 'the average length of time it would take a group of teenagers to notice that their friend has a strange tendency to switch personalities upon occasion'. The last thing he remembered, Bakura had offered him his piece of steak…
Okay, so Malik knew what he was doing. He was leaning forward. He was nearly nose-to-nose with the millennia-dead tomb robber. Who was, interestingly enough, a member of his gender. He supposed the question really was:
WHY was he doing this?!
Then, as Malik drew yet closer, his mind ceased to produce coherent thought.
Bakura raised an eyebrow. There was a very strange expression apparent on Malik's face. He wasn't glaring at Bakura, like he often did; nor was he smirking in foolish pride. No, this was different.
He wasn't smiling, or frowning, or crying…
…but whatever it was, it drew him in all the same.
That was when he realized just what Malik was about to do.
…Oh, shit.
Five seconds passed, and then another five, and another. Finally, Bakura pulled away; contact was broken.
Strangely innocent violet eyes, hooded, drew back and regarded the one in front of them with a slow, roving gaze. Then something found itself, and Malik snapped back into awareness. "What have I…" He brought a hand to his lips and touched them in disbelief, staring at Bakura all the while. "Oh, no. I didn't mean that. Really, I didn't. I, uh…" he babbled.
Bakura's own lips twitched upward into a smirk. He was rather more eloquent in his choice of words. "You, Malik, are a wimp."
He stared at Bakura. "WHAT?"
"You are," said Bakura. "Don't bother denying it, Malik."
"How am I a wimp?" And why aren't you mad? added Malik silently.
The white-haired spirit shrugged. "You actually accepted a dare, I assumed."
Malik gaped.
"Was I wrong, then?" Bakura's smirk widened. Malik now had two choices:
One. Deny Bakura's assumption and admit that he was indeed gay and in love with Bakura. Which he didn't even think he was.
Two. Agree with Bakura, thus lying to uphold his already-shaky reputation and possibly protect the small friendship that had begun forming between them.
Neither particularly thrilling, he thought, so his overworked mind produced a third.
"Want dessert?"
Bakura looked up from his menu, and cleared his throat. Malik placed his own menu upon the table and met Bakura's eyes. "What?"
Bakura grinned. "Feel like splitting a sundae?"
"Sure."
Now would be a good time to explain one fact: Malik was confused as hell.
Or, rather, more confused than a saint who had found himself in hell. A small, saintly saint, who had no reason at all to be in hell. Although it was more the other way around than anything.
Why wasn't Bakura saying anything about that? Did he really think that Malik would have accepted a dare of that sort? From whom, besides? How many people did Malik know?
No. He couldn't be that stupid.
So…
Bakura could just want to keep things the way they were, without comment. That was probable.
But he seemed to be nudging Malik forward just a little bit. He had offered twice, now, to share a meal with Malik, and even offered to give Malik steak – ignoring that it was already in his mouth. This could mean nothing. Malik didn't want to make a big deal out of it – he would feel quite a fool if he was wrong in that regard.
What did Bakura think of him?
Did he really want to know?
Maybe the most important question right now, thought Malik, is about how I feel towards him.
Even I don't know.
Strange, pale skin – soft – and hair yet paler. Whiter than the wings of angels, he thought in a rare poetic moment. Narrow, cunning – intelligent – eyes filled with deep crimson. Blood, taken perhaps from those he had slain.
A quick mind, to be sure, and reflexes to match; another spoon had woven its way through the boy's lithe fingers.
First and second, fourth and third. First and fourth, now – hypnotizing, almost, pale fingers dancing to a soundless tune-
Hell, next thing Malik knew he would be rhapsodizing at the poor thief.
Heh. 'Poor thief'. Interesting choice of words.
Wasn't Bakura, though? He didn't really have much binding him to the world, except for that obsession with the Millennium Items.
That aside, though.
He had nothing – no friends, no love…
No love…
Oh, gods.
