Author's Notes: Everyone still reading? And many thanks to Borath, who
beta'd this chapter ^^
ChApTeR SeVeN
Malik finally managed to park near the entrance of Domino City Mall, after driving through the cramped parking lot searching for a spot that was at least within sight of the building. Finally, a kind old woman gave him his space after almost side-swiping him.
Inside, people milled around and crowded together in the popular stores, like ants swarming sugar cubes. Malik browsed the clothing stores, passed the food court, wandered through bath shops.
He had come, partly, to look for a new shirt. Again, the mindless waltz of window shopping soothed him. Smirking, he reflected that this was supposedly the mode of therapy most women chose to duel their "moods" with. He'd never found this to be true in his family. Isis threw herself into her work; who knew what their mother had done.
The empty, frightened hollows in his mind began to loosen the hold on his thoughts, fogging over with pleasant nothingness. Presently he stood in front of one display case, studying a black cotton shirt; it had long sleeves, something Malik had never worn, though now he shivered from a constant chill.
A large teen, probably an athlete of some kind, shoved past him. Malik sprawled but managed to catch himself before he fell. The group of teens ignored him, the boy not even looking back.
"Hey!" Malik snapped, earning an off-the-shoulder, bored expression. Glaring, he shoved the slowly meandering jock, hard.
Now all of the group stopped. The jock spun around, grabbed Malik roughly by the collar of his shirt. The blond struggled, realizing only then that what little strength he'd had was exhausted. In the best of health he would have stood a chance...not now.
Malik lashed out with his right knee, but in the same instant the other boy threw him away. Malik's leg connected with the other's groin, not as solidly as he'd intended, but enough that it gave him a few seconds to get away. Not that it was enough. Malik landed on the linoleum floor, his back hitting down with a loud 'snap'; he was breathless.
"Are you okay?" The group was asking, not of Malik but of their friend, who was doubled over, face red and eyes clamped shut.
Another boy walked over, watching Malik sit up. He knelt on Malik's left thigh, then cut off any cry of pain by squeezing the tanned throat. Encouraged, another of the jock's friends came over to help.
"Yeah! Kill him, Randy!" The others crowed.
Malik clawed at his attacker's face, eventually hooking two fingers in the moist, spongy corners of Randy's eyes.
Randy staggered back, clapping his hands over his eyes. Blood and feeling rushed back through Malik's leg.
The next boy came from the side, his fist cracking across Malik's jaw. The soft bouncing sound of rubber soles on linoleum tiles from somewhere just behind him distracted the Egyptian, but not the attackers, who were filling in around their victim. But before anything else could happen, the nearest boy was skidding across the floor.
One more tried to attack Malik's protector. His arm was twisted at a sickening angle when he managed to escape.
Malik was hauled to his feet, and found his face buried momentarily in a mess of white hair that smelled of strawberries and graveyards.
"Ra. Lost weight, did you?" A guttural voice exclaimed, obviously surprised at how easily Malik could be lifted.
"B-Bakura, why-"
"Shut up. Get to an exit before the guards get us. Do you have your motorcycle?" The thief wove expertly in and out of the crowd, never loosening a painful grip on Malik's arm.
Once they were outside, Malik led the way to the bike. He glanced at Bakura, not inviting him to come but not protesting when the spirit climbed on behind him.
"Where do you want me to take you?" Malik asked flatly, jamming the key into the ignition.
"Will you just drive? Yap later, escape now."
After speeding down eight blocks, Bakura motioned left, to a fairly new apartment complex that Malik didn't recognize. Bakura instructed him to park and sauntered up the nearest flight of stairs.
Deftly, Bakura tugged a key from his pocket and, once the door was open, forced Malik inside.
Not really sure why he was here-and, honestly, frightened that Bakura was simply out for revenge-Malik asked shakily, "You live here?"
Dark brown eyes looked him over, chilling as early winter frost. "My host's father didn't appreciate all the troublesome 'incidents' from the past two years. Told us to get out, and maybe come back someday."
Feeling a little guilty (he had been part of those 'incidents'), Malik tried to find a suitable way to apologize. Bakura just made a derisive sound that Malik had become well acquainted with, as he had received it often. It meant that the topic was going to be a difficult one to broach.
Bakura sat on a small whicker chair, seeming to "fall out" of Ryou; it took a moment for Malik to realize the two had separated. He wondered if it appeared the same for Yami and Yugi; he'd never really been able to 'split' from his own yami.
"Do you want something to drink?" Ryou asked, making up for his yami's rudeness. Malik nodded once, asking for water.
The pale teen disappeared around the corner, leaving Malik to study the small room. Posters he recognized from Ryou's old room were now displayed on each wall. Pictures of his friends were taped around to fill in the spaces between the posters. Empty beer bottles, clearly Bakura's influence, were scattered at random across the floor.
Ryou came out with a cold, clear glass of ice water. "What happened, Malik?"
Frustration welled up at the thought-the memory-of being helpless at the hands of people he ordinarily wouldn't have batted an eye at. "I don't know. They pushed me, and I pushed back, but.... I don't know...why I couldn't fight." His throat constricted as if he were being strangled again. "I tried..." his hand trembled, water spilling over the sides onto his hand, shirt and pants.
Quickly, Ryou turned. "Sit down, I'll go grab a towel." He trotted back to the kitchen.
When Malik had dried as much as he could, Ryou said quietly, "I meant about that. What's happened to you?"
Malik's hand stopped trying to mop off his shirt. "What?" A small part of him hoped Ryou was going to say something to offer proof that his changes weren't that noticeable.
Ryou licked the corner of his upper lip, a nervous habit Malik recognized. Quietly, he said, "You're so thin."
Bakura had hardly moved throughout this. His expression had dimmed at seeing Malik's quivering display, but now a spark of interest, cold and distant, lit in his eyes.
The tomb robber knew that Malik wasn't one to conceal his emotions (his motives, yes, but aside from that he was open as a book.) Bakura doubted he'd try to lie to Ryou now.but there was a lot that was different about the slender teen now.
"I know. I just haven't been hungry."
There was a pause. "Is it because Isis's exhibit hasn't been in any museums?"
"No, that's not it." He'd had no idea his sister's exhibit hadn't been doing well. "How did you-?"
"Yugi keeps a closer eye on your family than he'd like you to know." Ryou answered casually.
"It looks like you do, too."
Bakura noted the twinge of hostility in Malik's tone; Ryou, apparently, hadn't. Bakura's eyes, narrower and harsher than Ryou's, gazed at him. "Not anymore." The thief stood and went into the kitchen, reappearing with a bottle of beer.
Malik wasn't sure if he meant that he had no interest in the Ishtars because they'd given up their Items, or if he meant the deal-that Bakura would stop Yami Malik from killing Rishid in exchange for the Rod-had been the only point of interest as far as their welfare went. Both were likely.
He sipped the cold water, since his mouth felt so uncomfortably dry. "What were you doing at the mall?"
Bakura sat down on the arm of the sofa, then leaned forward and set his bottle on the small coffee table. "I was shopping. But if you mean, 'Why did I help you', then it's because I wondered why you were allowing yourself to be beaten by a bunch of kids. You had ambitions, damn big ones, and rugrats shouldn't be able to walk all over you."
Malik frowned. "I told you. I couldn't fight back. I can't."
"Yeah. I figured you weren't just playing with them when I ended up the only one fighting."
"Are you complaining? Did you want my help?"
Bakura glowered at him. "It blew off steam."
"You've got a lot to 'blow off'," Malik mused, not really thinking of all the connotations that held.
Bakura grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed him against the cushions, straddling Malik's stomach. Gasping, Malik writhed, trying to get his arms free.
Ryou's eyes widened and he took a step towards his yami, but jerked to a halt when Bakura noticed and glared warningly at him.
Bakura's expression went from anger, to surprise, to amusement when they both realized how easily Malik had been trapped.
"Are you going to beg?" Bakura asked coldly the instant Malik's mouth opened to protest.
"Let me go!" Malik fought any note of pleading; he struggled more fiercely, feeling his shoulders ache. "Get off!"
Bakura studied the nearly helpless teen beneath him, remembering a time when Malik had out muscled him. Of course, it had been a different context then, and Bakura hadn't worried for an instant over the idea he might not have been able to protect himself.
Anger and shock and humiliation stewed in Malik's mind, stung his eyes with tears. He would not cry in front of, or because of, Bakura. The tomb robber saw this, all of it, and frowned. He squeezed the shoulders in his fists tighter, until Malik cried out.
Sun bronzed hands pushed futilely at Bakura's arms.
"Malik, you bastard, listen to me!" Slowly, enraged and achingly desperate eyes met the spirit's face. Bakura swallowed hard, thrown off guard in spite of himself. "I'm not going to hurt you. If I'd wanted to, I would have already."
"Then let me go!"
"Make me." Bakura leaned a little closer. "Don't you even remember how to fight?"
"Is that all you want?" Malik gasped. "To fight?" Bakura sighed and sat back, as if Malik had missed the point of it all.
Relief shoved off Malik's earlier feelings of panic and anger. Softly, he said, "I remember how. I just...can't."
"Why not?"
"I'm too tired." Indeed, he'd given up even the effort of sitting up.
Bakura took this answer with an expression of distaste. "Why?" A note of frustration had crept into Bakura's voice, though only Ryou had noticed.
Malik shook his head and pushed his fingers through his silky blond hair. "Who knows?" He glared at nothing, unconsciously giving away the fact that he knew.
Bakura watched the play of bewildering emotion on his companion's face. "I always thought you enjoyed a challenging brawl."
A muscle in Malik's tightly clamped jaw twitched. "Thank you for your help, Bakura. Please get off of me." Bakura rose just a few millimeters, allowing Malik to squirm his way off the couch.
When he stood, he couldn't bring himself to see the burning concern (or was it mere curiosity?) on Ryou's and Bakura's faces.
"Are you sure you can drive?" Ryou finally asked, when Malik was at the door.
"Yes." His voice sounded harsh and breathless. Unwilling to face any argument, he tugged open the door and quickly stepped outside.
As soon as he had the door shut tight behind him, he shivered while hot, angry tears built up not just behind his closed eyelids but seemingly as a flood against his mind. And it hurt.
When he heard voices from the other side of the door he forced his way down the stairs.
*~*~*
Ryou stared at the door for a moment, trying to convince himself that boy out there really was Malik. "I think you hurt him." He hardly realized he'd spoken until the words were out and dangling tensely for the yami to pounce on.
"Your point being what?" Bakura growled, opening his beer. Ryou hadn't turned, but he'd heard the hiss of the bottle top being unscrewed. "You want me to go out and hold him while he cries?"
"If you were his friend you would." The hikari slumped into the empty whicker chair.
"If." Bakura scoffed.
"You protected him at the mall," Ryou argued. He shook his head and went on, "Yami, I really don't think he needed you to.make things worse right after you'd helped him."
"As if he doesn't deserve it!"
Ryou didn't offer a retort. Instead he sat for several minutes and listened to his yami swallow mouthful after mouthful of Heinekens. At last he said softly, "Maybe he does."
Bakura grunted at that.
"But do you really want to see him die? Like that, I mean? It doesn't really prove anything. It doesn't fix anything. And I don't want him to.to die. I just don't think that we should leave him like that."
The spirit eyed the door, then looked back at his hikari. "It doesn't matter what you want for him. Tell me how to fix it, Ryou. Or don't, because there isn't anything I can do. I can step in all you want but when all's done it's not going to amount to anything."
Ryou stared at his lap, unwilling to believe.
*~*~*
Malik had barely gone two blocks when the engine dies. And no matter how he tried, it wouldn't start back up again; a quick glance at the gasoline gauge told him the problem, though. The ride with Yugi must have taken up more than he'd thought.
Feeling oddly isolated, he pushed the heavy bike to a gas station and parked it around back. Inside, a young attendant informed him that he had to buy something to use the phone, but took pity (or relented to the fear of wrath) when that bit of news nearly sent Malik into hysterics.
Unfortunately, he couldn't remember the hotel number. The attendant generously offered a tattered phone book and Malik reluctantly looked up and dialed Ryou's number.
"Hello?"
"Ryou?" Before there could be a response, Malik went on, "My motorcycle ran out of gas. I'm at a gas station, but I don't have any money and I don't know how to get in touch with Isis. Do you know the name of her museum?" He refused to feel embarrassed or upset that he had to ask such a thing. He wouldn't let himself think about how ungrateful he sounded.
"Oh.I knew the one she wanted to have her exhibit hosted at, but I think that one fell through."
Malik stifled a sigh. "Fine. Thanks." He hung up before Ryou could answer. He stormed out without another glance. So he didn't notice that he'd left his keys in the ignition.
*~*~*
Malik was shivering as he walked home. 'Home' had been many places for him that should not have been; a pit under sand, a ship...now a hotel room in a city where he was, rightfully, despised.
Gray-green leaves slapped across his face as he walked underneath an old, unkempt willow tree. Bland white concrete underneath his feet, crumbling as he got into the more populated part of the city. A slate-colored sky overhead was bleached from a heavy sun rather than because of any clouds.
A dull, creeping ache was forming in his head, and each breath he took was a little bit shallower than the last. His body shifted moment to moment from being hot and cold, but he was always shivering. His ears were blocked as well, muffling the sounds of any life around him.
He recognized all of this easily; the sickening blend someone had dubbed 'withdrawals'. It wasn't likely that he'd reach home before his stomach became unsettled, but he didn't want further humiliation of vomiting all over his favorite shirt.
A word other than 'withdrawals' had been on his mind. 'Tolerance'. One pill no longer soothed all of his aches, or numbed him, or even made him see colors more brilliantly. He would feel his skin crawl, as if his mind were trying to slip away, to separate from his weak form. But that was it. There was no rush of steadying coolness anymore, nothing to blind his pain.
As the comfort of the drugs wore off, malice hung in the spaces between himself and every stranger he passed. It caused a fear so indescribable it took his breath away.
He jumped when someone would brush shoulders with him, trembled and whimpered when he was in a crowd. It brought the memory of the hospital.of Dr. Newton and the orderlies, and even a few patients trying to console him and get him to stop "whimpering". As hands tried to close in around him he would jerk away, duck under tables, throw things, scream for Isis..
Even now her name was half-formed in every cry that struggled past his chattering teeth. He would not run; he couldn't. His legs shook too forcefully. Besides which, there was nowhere to hide.
A muffled rumble paused beside him. "Get on and drive," Bakura snapped.
Malik all but ran to him, resisting the urge to curl up against the spirit. "Who taught you to drive?"
"It's not hard," the tomb raider answered gruffly. At Malik's look he amended, "Ryou knows how."
"Drive for me," Malik said, climbing on back. He didn't want to explain and hoped Bakura wouldn't ask.
Wearily he laid his head against the other's back, wondering if he'd be pushed off the bike for the action. But without a word, Bakura sped him home and stayed until a bus came to return him home.
Then Malik went up the stairs, locked the door, found he was alone and doled out two pills. There were twenty-five left after he'd swallowed those two, now that he counted.
After a few minutes, his skin began to tingle; goosebumps rose and fell across his entire body. Heat radiated outward from the pit of his stomach, taking moisture from his mouth and eyes. He stumbled into the corner of a table, jarring Isis's make-up bag. A handheld mirror slid across the table and the glass popped out; the reflective surface poured light onto his face.
Tentative, his fingertips brushed the mirror and found it icy cold. Slowly, he picked up the palm-sized piece of glass and sat down on the bed, rolling it over and over in his hands, loving the cold feel of it against his skin. It was almost like cold, slippery ice. And ice was wet, cold water, something that could slowly drip back into liquid..
Thoughtlessly, he slipped it halfway into his mouth and laid back, as he'd done so many times before with small cubes or slivers taken from the ice machine down the hall. His eyes closed and he wished that it really was ice, although it did the job of wetting his mouth well enough.
When it was no longer cold, his jaw worked against it, trying to chew and break it, though Malik didn't register that he was doing it. Before he realized what was happening, the glass had cracked in two, slicing his lip. He spat the pieces on the floor and looked up as the door unlocked and Isis walked in.
***
"There doesn't appear to be any damage."
"No blood--"
"Small contusions-"
The words swirled and buzzed, fading in and out of coherence. He was surrounded by doctors dressed in green, blue, yellow and pink; they all looked the same to him except for their colors.
It wasn't a dream. He knew that. It was ridiculously funny.this whole thing was. He didn't need to be here; why was he even on this uncomfortable bed? And what sort of uncomfortable bed had wheels, anyway?
A buzzing sound in his ears again, and he couldn't see anymore. He tried to keep listening.
"-chemicals-"
"-The drugs these kids take!" A vividly disgusted tone in the doctor's voice.
Malik shut his eyes, tried to cover his ears. Firm hands tugged his arms back into place, straight at his sides. He realized why when he looked.
They were pushing him under a very large, heavy machine**. It wouldn't.fall on him.? Surely it wouldn't. What would it do to him, then?
His head swam, making the room spin once, and then he slept.
***
When he woke, his head felt strange; thick and cottony, the same feeling he remembered from when he'd caught a cold. He wasn't entirely sure where he was, but there were two small plastic bags hanging off to the side, one holding a clear liquid and the other holding blood.
Malik's eyes followed the little plastic tubes at the bottoms of the sacks and found they were somehow attached to his hand. Well, the clear one was. The red one was in his arm. Both looked uncomfortable, and he didn't want to think about what would happen when they were taken out, though for now he couldn't feel anything.
Best to ignore it.
His sister was seated across the room, Rishid standing beside her. Both were staring at him, but neither of them reacted when he opened his eyes. Isis's eyes were bright from crying.
Strange pictures of someone's esophagus, stomach, and intestines were hanging behind Isis. Malik grimaced when he realized the pictures were of him.
He vaguely remembered being fed a graham cracker; it had left a strange aftertaste in his mouth. As the thought of the doctor's voices faded, he heard the door opening. All three Ishtars looked over to see one of the head doctors walk in. Malik identified him as the one wearing the blue smock.
"Miss Ishtar?" Isis stood. "He should be okay, aside from a cut on his lower lip. I don't think it will even need stitches." The doctor frowned, his expression a mask of concern. Quietly he walked over to Malik's bedside. "How do you feel?"
"I feel okay." He glanced at Isis and added, "I feel well."
"I need to know this, so please answer truthfully. If you need, we can have your sister wait outside. Have you taken any drugs?"
Malik's hand, the one without anything stuck in it, tightened into a fist. "Just what my doctor gave me." Bitterness iced the words; Malik made no attempt to disguise it.
"What medication? Look, I want you to tell your doctor to take you off of it now."
"Ok."
"Miss Ishtar, I'd like to speak with you alone."
She forced her concerns into one tight frown. Tossing a glance at Rishid, who stepped up beside Malik, she went after the doctor.
"Yes?"
He'd taken her into an empty exam room. Lowering his voice, he said, "We found some cuts and bruises that concerned us. Since he's still a minor, and you are his guardian, we would ordinarily have him examined by child services."
Isis grew pale. She could literally feel the blood rushing away from her face. "No, you-you don't understand! You think I hurt my brother-?"
"No," the doctor had his hands up in a placating manner. "Since you are Egyptian citizens, legally we can't intervene. But if he comes in here again, I will have the three of you analyzed by our psychologists, and I'll make note of this to the government of Egypt."
"I understand," Isis answered, her tone stiff. "Am I able to take him home now?"
"Yes." The doctor's eyes were sad, she noted.
He had seen this so many times before, he had probably lost count. He hated the thought, but it was likely that the next time he saw Malik Ishtar, it would be in the morgue.
***
A few days later, Malik lay on one of the hotel beds, staring up at the ceiling, trying to force thought and emotion out of his mind. He wanted to feel nothing, nothing at all. He wanted that blissful numbness from the hospital. But stronger than his will, anger and humiliation slid into his thoughts.
Slowly he rolled over onto his side so he was staring at Rishid's empty bed. A small pile of the man's extra clothes were set at the foot. Desperate for some sort of distraction as the shows on the television had failed, he padded over and dug around in Rishid's pockets.
He didn't find much, except for a fishing knife.
Its handle was steel with brown stripes painted on as a mockery of decoration. The blade was thin and long, and it hooked up at the end. Unsheathed, it was filthy but delicate. When he ran his thumb over the slender edge, it was smooth as polished stones, and about as sharp.
With nothing better to do, he walked out to the hall and stole a scrap of steel wool from one of the housekeeping trolleys. Back in his room, he locked himself in the bathroom, filled the sink, and dipped the knife under the water.
Malik squirted some of his shampoo on the steel wool, wishing he'd had the foresight to grab some Ajax off the trolley, but he was unwilling to go outside again. He began scrubbing the blade, grateful for such a mindless task.
Wet rust flaked off the blade and stuck to the sides of the porcelain sink. The metal handle scratched easily, but Malik quickly decided that it would not be allowed to stay dirty. Besides, he knew how many people had bled onto this knife and caused it to rust.
His fingernails were just long enough to scrape and claw the dried gore off. Several hours passed before he considered the dull blade not to be disgusting any longer. The sink was awful, but Malik decided that could be left to the maids. Then he unlocked the door and walked out, fully intending to keep the knife to himself.
Rishid and Isis were there placing dinner on the table. Both of his siblings gave him a strange look when they saw what he was holding. Isis frowned in obvious disapproval when he told her why he wanted to keep it ("Protection." he'd said) but she turned her attention back to the bag of carrots she was opening.
Rishid asked, quietly so that Isis wouldn't take much notice, "Do you need protecting, Malik?"
His stomach lurched as he thought of the earlier events. "No."
"I'm.." 'not hungry' died at the tip of his tongue as he remembered what Ryou had said about Isis's exhibit. He grabbed a plate.
"I see you have your motorcycle back," Isis said, taking a seat.
Malik gnawed at the end of a celery stalk and hid a grimace when the stringy vegetable stuck between his teeth. "Yugi Motou wanted to go for a ride."
"Ah. Did you have fun?"
"Yes." Silence and tension filled the room. Uneasily, Malik toyed with the edges of his paper plate and finally asked, "Where is your exhibit being hosted?"
His sister's expression became stony. "I haven't had an offer."
No one ate or spoke until Malik murmured, "What are we going to do?"
Isis hesitated, opened her mouth to answer, and hesitated again. Malik was old enough, she reasoned, and experienced enough to hear the truth. He didn't need reassuring lies. Not from someone he ought to trust with honesty.
She wanted to hold him close like a child, but couldn't guess if that would insult him. The stillness dragged on.
"I don't know." She finally admitted.
Malik wasn't sure how long he'd been expecting to hear that, but those words coming from Isis sent his mind scrambling for an answer. "I could enter a competition," was the first thing that came to mind.
"No!" Malik, and even Isis, flinched at the harshness in her voice. She softened her tone immediately. "Brother, you cannot go up against the Pharaoh."
How could he have overlooked the fact that Yugi would enter any competition he found here? Sullenly he tried again. "I could get a job."
"You could. If we lived here long enough."
Malik sighed impatiently and shook his head. He was trying to fix this, but everything Isis said pointed out the flaws in his plans. And everything she said was true. He was unwilling to follow through with his next offer, but spitefully he said it anyway, desperate to find at least one thing that Isis wouldn't be able to punch a hole in. "I could sell my motorcycle."
"I don't want you to do that, brother." She didn't look at him, didn't voice the thought that it was inevitable.
A/N: **Well, as Borath pointed out, that was a pretty vague description. I don't remember what the big machine was. . Might've been an X-ray, but had to get X-rays on my leg a few months after Big Machine incident and the two machines looked different, so I don't think it was. Then again, I might've seen it as bigger than it was. Being on a stretcher makes things seem really huge.
ChApTeR SeVeN
Malik finally managed to park near the entrance of Domino City Mall, after driving through the cramped parking lot searching for a spot that was at least within sight of the building. Finally, a kind old woman gave him his space after almost side-swiping him.
Inside, people milled around and crowded together in the popular stores, like ants swarming sugar cubes. Malik browsed the clothing stores, passed the food court, wandered through bath shops.
He had come, partly, to look for a new shirt. Again, the mindless waltz of window shopping soothed him. Smirking, he reflected that this was supposedly the mode of therapy most women chose to duel their "moods" with. He'd never found this to be true in his family. Isis threw herself into her work; who knew what their mother had done.
The empty, frightened hollows in his mind began to loosen the hold on his thoughts, fogging over with pleasant nothingness. Presently he stood in front of one display case, studying a black cotton shirt; it had long sleeves, something Malik had never worn, though now he shivered from a constant chill.
A large teen, probably an athlete of some kind, shoved past him. Malik sprawled but managed to catch himself before he fell. The group of teens ignored him, the boy not even looking back.
"Hey!" Malik snapped, earning an off-the-shoulder, bored expression. Glaring, he shoved the slowly meandering jock, hard.
Now all of the group stopped. The jock spun around, grabbed Malik roughly by the collar of his shirt. The blond struggled, realizing only then that what little strength he'd had was exhausted. In the best of health he would have stood a chance...not now.
Malik lashed out with his right knee, but in the same instant the other boy threw him away. Malik's leg connected with the other's groin, not as solidly as he'd intended, but enough that it gave him a few seconds to get away. Not that it was enough. Malik landed on the linoleum floor, his back hitting down with a loud 'snap'; he was breathless.
"Are you okay?" The group was asking, not of Malik but of their friend, who was doubled over, face red and eyes clamped shut.
Another boy walked over, watching Malik sit up. He knelt on Malik's left thigh, then cut off any cry of pain by squeezing the tanned throat. Encouraged, another of the jock's friends came over to help.
"Yeah! Kill him, Randy!" The others crowed.
Malik clawed at his attacker's face, eventually hooking two fingers in the moist, spongy corners of Randy's eyes.
Randy staggered back, clapping his hands over his eyes. Blood and feeling rushed back through Malik's leg.
The next boy came from the side, his fist cracking across Malik's jaw. The soft bouncing sound of rubber soles on linoleum tiles from somewhere just behind him distracted the Egyptian, but not the attackers, who were filling in around their victim. But before anything else could happen, the nearest boy was skidding across the floor.
One more tried to attack Malik's protector. His arm was twisted at a sickening angle when he managed to escape.
Malik was hauled to his feet, and found his face buried momentarily in a mess of white hair that smelled of strawberries and graveyards.
"Ra. Lost weight, did you?" A guttural voice exclaimed, obviously surprised at how easily Malik could be lifted.
"B-Bakura, why-"
"Shut up. Get to an exit before the guards get us. Do you have your motorcycle?" The thief wove expertly in and out of the crowd, never loosening a painful grip on Malik's arm.
Once they were outside, Malik led the way to the bike. He glanced at Bakura, not inviting him to come but not protesting when the spirit climbed on behind him.
"Where do you want me to take you?" Malik asked flatly, jamming the key into the ignition.
"Will you just drive? Yap later, escape now."
After speeding down eight blocks, Bakura motioned left, to a fairly new apartment complex that Malik didn't recognize. Bakura instructed him to park and sauntered up the nearest flight of stairs.
Deftly, Bakura tugged a key from his pocket and, once the door was open, forced Malik inside.
Not really sure why he was here-and, honestly, frightened that Bakura was simply out for revenge-Malik asked shakily, "You live here?"
Dark brown eyes looked him over, chilling as early winter frost. "My host's father didn't appreciate all the troublesome 'incidents' from the past two years. Told us to get out, and maybe come back someday."
Feeling a little guilty (he had been part of those 'incidents'), Malik tried to find a suitable way to apologize. Bakura just made a derisive sound that Malik had become well acquainted with, as he had received it often. It meant that the topic was going to be a difficult one to broach.
Bakura sat on a small whicker chair, seeming to "fall out" of Ryou; it took a moment for Malik to realize the two had separated. He wondered if it appeared the same for Yami and Yugi; he'd never really been able to 'split' from his own yami.
"Do you want something to drink?" Ryou asked, making up for his yami's rudeness. Malik nodded once, asking for water.
The pale teen disappeared around the corner, leaving Malik to study the small room. Posters he recognized from Ryou's old room were now displayed on each wall. Pictures of his friends were taped around to fill in the spaces between the posters. Empty beer bottles, clearly Bakura's influence, were scattered at random across the floor.
Ryou came out with a cold, clear glass of ice water. "What happened, Malik?"
Frustration welled up at the thought-the memory-of being helpless at the hands of people he ordinarily wouldn't have batted an eye at. "I don't know. They pushed me, and I pushed back, but.... I don't know...why I couldn't fight." His throat constricted as if he were being strangled again. "I tried..." his hand trembled, water spilling over the sides onto his hand, shirt and pants.
Quickly, Ryou turned. "Sit down, I'll go grab a towel." He trotted back to the kitchen.
When Malik had dried as much as he could, Ryou said quietly, "I meant about that. What's happened to you?"
Malik's hand stopped trying to mop off his shirt. "What?" A small part of him hoped Ryou was going to say something to offer proof that his changes weren't that noticeable.
Ryou licked the corner of his upper lip, a nervous habit Malik recognized. Quietly, he said, "You're so thin."
Bakura had hardly moved throughout this. His expression had dimmed at seeing Malik's quivering display, but now a spark of interest, cold and distant, lit in his eyes.
The tomb robber knew that Malik wasn't one to conceal his emotions (his motives, yes, but aside from that he was open as a book.) Bakura doubted he'd try to lie to Ryou now.but there was a lot that was different about the slender teen now.
"I know. I just haven't been hungry."
There was a pause. "Is it because Isis's exhibit hasn't been in any museums?"
"No, that's not it." He'd had no idea his sister's exhibit hadn't been doing well. "How did you-?"
"Yugi keeps a closer eye on your family than he'd like you to know." Ryou answered casually.
"It looks like you do, too."
Bakura noted the twinge of hostility in Malik's tone; Ryou, apparently, hadn't. Bakura's eyes, narrower and harsher than Ryou's, gazed at him. "Not anymore." The thief stood and went into the kitchen, reappearing with a bottle of beer.
Malik wasn't sure if he meant that he had no interest in the Ishtars because they'd given up their Items, or if he meant the deal-that Bakura would stop Yami Malik from killing Rishid in exchange for the Rod-had been the only point of interest as far as their welfare went. Both were likely.
He sipped the cold water, since his mouth felt so uncomfortably dry. "What were you doing at the mall?"
Bakura sat down on the arm of the sofa, then leaned forward and set his bottle on the small coffee table. "I was shopping. But if you mean, 'Why did I help you', then it's because I wondered why you were allowing yourself to be beaten by a bunch of kids. You had ambitions, damn big ones, and rugrats shouldn't be able to walk all over you."
Malik frowned. "I told you. I couldn't fight back. I can't."
"Yeah. I figured you weren't just playing with them when I ended up the only one fighting."
"Are you complaining? Did you want my help?"
Bakura glowered at him. "It blew off steam."
"You've got a lot to 'blow off'," Malik mused, not really thinking of all the connotations that held.
Bakura grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed him against the cushions, straddling Malik's stomach. Gasping, Malik writhed, trying to get his arms free.
Ryou's eyes widened and he took a step towards his yami, but jerked to a halt when Bakura noticed and glared warningly at him.
Bakura's expression went from anger, to surprise, to amusement when they both realized how easily Malik had been trapped.
"Are you going to beg?" Bakura asked coldly the instant Malik's mouth opened to protest.
"Let me go!" Malik fought any note of pleading; he struggled more fiercely, feeling his shoulders ache. "Get off!"
Bakura studied the nearly helpless teen beneath him, remembering a time when Malik had out muscled him. Of course, it had been a different context then, and Bakura hadn't worried for an instant over the idea he might not have been able to protect himself.
Anger and shock and humiliation stewed in Malik's mind, stung his eyes with tears. He would not cry in front of, or because of, Bakura. The tomb robber saw this, all of it, and frowned. He squeezed the shoulders in his fists tighter, until Malik cried out.
Sun bronzed hands pushed futilely at Bakura's arms.
"Malik, you bastard, listen to me!" Slowly, enraged and achingly desperate eyes met the spirit's face. Bakura swallowed hard, thrown off guard in spite of himself. "I'm not going to hurt you. If I'd wanted to, I would have already."
"Then let me go!"
"Make me." Bakura leaned a little closer. "Don't you even remember how to fight?"
"Is that all you want?" Malik gasped. "To fight?" Bakura sighed and sat back, as if Malik had missed the point of it all.
Relief shoved off Malik's earlier feelings of panic and anger. Softly, he said, "I remember how. I just...can't."
"Why not?"
"I'm too tired." Indeed, he'd given up even the effort of sitting up.
Bakura took this answer with an expression of distaste. "Why?" A note of frustration had crept into Bakura's voice, though only Ryou had noticed.
Malik shook his head and pushed his fingers through his silky blond hair. "Who knows?" He glared at nothing, unconsciously giving away the fact that he knew.
Bakura watched the play of bewildering emotion on his companion's face. "I always thought you enjoyed a challenging brawl."
A muscle in Malik's tightly clamped jaw twitched. "Thank you for your help, Bakura. Please get off of me." Bakura rose just a few millimeters, allowing Malik to squirm his way off the couch.
When he stood, he couldn't bring himself to see the burning concern (or was it mere curiosity?) on Ryou's and Bakura's faces.
"Are you sure you can drive?" Ryou finally asked, when Malik was at the door.
"Yes." His voice sounded harsh and breathless. Unwilling to face any argument, he tugged open the door and quickly stepped outside.
As soon as he had the door shut tight behind him, he shivered while hot, angry tears built up not just behind his closed eyelids but seemingly as a flood against his mind. And it hurt.
When he heard voices from the other side of the door he forced his way down the stairs.
*~*~*
Ryou stared at the door for a moment, trying to convince himself that boy out there really was Malik. "I think you hurt him." He hardly realized he'd spoken until the words were out and dangling tensely for the yami to pounce on.
"Your point being what?" Bakura growled, opening his beer. Ryou hadn't turned, but he'd heard the hiss of the bottle top being unscrewed. "You want me to go out and hold him while he cries?"
"If you were his friend you would." The hikari slumped into the empty whicker chair.
"If." Bakura scoffed.
"You protected him at the mall," Ryou argued. He shook his head and went on, "Yami, I really don't think he needed you to.make things worse right after you'd helped him."
"As if he doesn't deserve it!"
Ryou didn't offer a retort. Instead he sat for several minutes and listened to his yami swallow mouthful after mouthful of Heinekens. At last he said softly, "Maybe he does."
Bakura grunted at that.
"But do you really want to see him die? Like that, I mean? It doesn't really prove anything. It doesn't fix anything. And I don't want him to.to die. I just don't think that we should leave him like that."
The spirit eyed the door, then looked back at his hikari. "It doesn't matter what you want for him. Tell me how to fix it, Ryou. Or don't, because there isn't anything I can do. I can step in all you want but when all's done it's not going to amount to anything."
Ryou stared at his lap, unwilling to believe.
*~*~*
Malik had barely gone two blocks when the engine dies. And no matter how he tried, it wouldn't start back up again; a quick glance at the gasoline gauge told him the problem, though. The ride with Yugi must have taken up more than he'd thought.
Feeling oddly isolated, he pushed the heavy bike to a gas station and parked it around back. Inside, a young attendant informed him that he had to buy something to use the phone, but took pity (or relented to the fear of wrath) when that bit of news nearly sent Malik into hysterics.
Unfortunately, he couldn't remember the hotel number. The attendant generously offered a tattered phone book and Malik reluctantly looked up and dialed Ryou's number.
"Hello?"
"Ryou?" Before there could be a response, Malik went on, "My motorcycle ran out of gas. I'm at a gas station, but I don't have any money and I don't know how to get in touch with Isis. Do you know the name of her museum?" He refused to feel embarrassed or upset that he had to ask such a thing. He wouldn't let himself think about how ungrateful he sounded.
"Oh.I knew the one she wanted to have her exhibit hosted at, but I think that one fell through."
Malik stifled a sigh. "Fine. Thanks." He hung up before Ryou could answer. He stormed out without another glance. So he didn't notice that he'd left his keys in the ignition.
*~*~*
Malik was shivering as he walked home. 'Home' had been many places for him that should not have been; a pit under sand, a ship...now a hotel room in a city where he was, rightfully, despised.
Gray-green leaves slapped across his face as he walked underneath an old, unkempt willow tree. Bland white concrete underneath his feet, crumbling as he got into the more populated part of the city. A slate-colored sky overhead was bleached from a heavy sun rather than because of any clouds.
A dull, creeping ache was forming in his head, and each breath he took was a little bit shallower than the last. His body shifted moment to moment from being hot and cold, but he was always shivering. His ears were blocked as well, muffling the sounds of any life around him.
He recognized all of this easily; the sickening blend someone had dubbed 'withdrawals'. It wasn't likely that he'd reach home before his stomach became unsettled, but he didn't want further humiliation of vomiting all over his favorite shirt.
A word other than 'withdrawals' had been on his mind. 'Tolerance'. One pill no longer soothed all of his aches, or numbed him, or even made him see colors more brilliantly. He would feel his skin crawl, as if his mind were trying to slip away, to separate from his weak form. But that was it. There was no rush of steadying coolness anymore, nothing to blind his pain.
As the comfort of the drugs wore off, malice hung in the spaces between himself and every stranger he passed. It caused a fear so indescribable it took his breath away.
He jumped when someone would brush shoulders with him, trembled and whimpered when he was in a crowd. It brought the memory of the hospital.of Dr. Newton and the orderlies, and even a few patients trying to console him and get him to stop "whimpering". As hands tried to close in around him he would jerk away, duck under tables, throw things, scream for Isis..
Even now her name was half-formed in every cry that struggled past his chattering teeth. He would not run; he couldn't. His legs shook too forcefully. Besides which, there was nowhere to hide.
A muffled rumble paused beside him. "Get on and drive," Bakura snapped.
Malik all but ran to him, resisting the urge to curl up against the spirit. "Who taught you to drive?"
"It's not hard," the tomb raider answered gruffly. At Malik's look he amended, "Ryou knows how."
"Drive for me," Malik said, climbing on back. He didn't want to explain and hoped Bakura wouldn't ask.
Wearily he laid his head against the other's back, wondering if he'd be pushed off the bike for the action. But without a word, Bakura sped him home and stayed until a bus came to return him home.
Then Malik went up the stairs, locked the door, found he was alone and doled out two pills. There were twenty-five left after he'd swallowed those two, now that he counted.
After a few minutes, his skin began to tingle; goosebumps rose and fell across his entire body. Heat radiated outward from the pit of his stomach, taking moisture from his mouth and eyes. He stumbled into the corner of a table, jarring Isis's make-up bag. A handheld mirror slid across the table and the glass popped out; the reflective surface poured light onto his face.
Tentative, his fingertips brushed the mirror and found it icy cold. Slowly, he picked up the palm-sized piece of glass and sat down on the bed, rolling it over and over in his hands, loving the cold feel of it against his skin. It was almost like cold, slippery ice. And ice was wet, cold water, something that could slowly drip back into liquid..
Thoughtlessly, he slipped it halfway into his mouth and laid back, as he'd done so many times before with small cubes or slivers taken from the ice machine down the hall. His eyes closed and he wished that it really was ice, although it did the job of wetting his mouth well enough.
When it was no longer cold, his jaw worked against it, trying to chew and break it, though Malik didn't register that he was doing it. Before he realized what was happening, the glass had cracked in two, slicing his lip. He spat the pieces on the floor and looked up as the door unlocked and Isis walked in.
***
"There doesn't appear to be any damage."
"No blood--"
"Small contusions-"
The words swirled and buzzed, fading in and out of coherence. He was surrounded by doctors dressed in green, blue, yellow and pink; they all looked the same to him except for their colors.
It wasn't a dream. He knew that. It was ridiculously funny.this whole thing was. He didn't need to be here; why was he even on this uncomfortable bed? And what sort of uncomfortable bed had wheels, anyway?
A buzzing sound in his ears again, and he couldn't see anymore. He tried to keep listening.
"-chemicals-"
"-The drugs these kids take!" A vividly disgusted tone in the doctor's voice.
Malik shut his eyes, tried to cover his ears. Firm hands tugged his arms back into place, straight at his sides. He realized why when he looked.
They were pushing him under a very large, heavy machine**. It wouldn't.fall on him.? Surely it wouldn't. What would it do to him, then?
His head swam, making the room spin once, and then he slept.
***
When he woke, his head felt strange; thick and cottony, the same feeling he remembered from when he'd caught a cold. He wasn't entirely sure where he was, but there were two small plastic bags hanging off to the side, one holding a clear liquid and the other holding blood.
Malik's eyes followed the little plastic tubes at the bottoms of the sacks and found they were somehow attached to his hand. Well, the clear one was. The red one was in his arm. Both looked uncomfortable, and he didn't want to think about what would happen when they were taken out, though for now he couldn't feel anything.
Best to ignore it.
His sister was seated across the room, Rishid standing beside her. Both were staring at him, but neither of them reacted when he opened his eyes. Isis's eyes were bright from crying.
Strange pictures of someone's esophagus, stomach, and intestines were hanging behind Isis. Malik grimaced when he realized the pictures were of him.
He vaguely remembered being fed a graham cracker; it had left a strange aftertaste in his mouth. As the thought of the doctor's voices faded, he heard the door opening. All three Ishtars looked over to see one of the head doctors walk in. Malik identified him as the one wearing the blue smock.
"Miss Ishtar?" Isis stood. "He should be okay, aside from a cut on his lower lip. I don't think it will even need stitches." The doctor frowned, his expression a mask of concern. Quietly he walked over to Malik's bedside. "How do you feel?"
"I feel okay." He glanced at Isis and added, "I feel well."
"I need to know this, so please answer truthfully. If you need, we can have your sister wait outside. Have you taken any drugs?"
Malik's hand, the one without anything stuck in it, tightened into a fist. "Just what my doctor gave me." Bitterness iced the words; Malik made no attempt to disguise it.
"What medication? Look, I want you to tell your doctor to take you off of it now."
"Ok."
"Miss Ishtar, I'd like to speak with you alone."
She forced her concerns into one tight frown. Tossing a glance at Rishid, who stepped up beside Malik, she went after the doctor.
"Yes?"
He'd taken her into an empty exam room. Lowering his voice, he said, "We found some cuts and bruises that concerned us. Since he's still a minor, and you are his guardian, we would ordinarily have him examined by child services."
Isis grew pale. She could literally feel the blood rushing away from her face. "No, you-you don't understand! You think I hurt my brother-?"
"No," the doctor had his hands up in a placating manner. "Since you are Egyptian citizens, legally we can't intervene. But if he comes in here again, I will have the three of you analyzed by our psychologists, and I'll make note of this to the government of Egypt."
"I understand," Isis answered, her tone stiff. "Am I able to take him home now?"
"Yes." The doctor's eyes were sad, she noted.
He had seen this so many times before, he had probably lost count. He hated the thought, but it was likely that the next time he saw Malik Ishtar, it would be in the morgue.
***
A few days later, Malik lay on one of the hotel beds, staring up at the ceiling, trying to force thought and emotion out of his mind. He wanted to feel nothing, nothing at all. He wanted that blissful numbness from the hospital. But stronger than his will, anger and humiliation slid into his thoughts.
Slowly he rolled over onto his side so he was staring at Rishid's empty bed. A small pile of the man's extra clothes were set at the foot. Desperate for some sort of distraction as the shows on the television had failed, he padded over and dug around in Rishid's pockets.
He didn't find much, except for a fishing knife.
Its handle was steel with brown stripes painted on as a mockery of decoration. The blade was thin and long, and it hooked up at the end. Unsheathed, it was filthy but delicate. When he ran his thumb over the slender edge, it was smooth as polished stones, and about as sharp.
With nothing better to do, he walked out to the hall and stole a scrap of steel wool from one of the housekeeping trolleys. Back in his room, he locked himself in the bathroom, filled the sink, and dipped the knife under the water.
Malik squirted some of his shampoo on the steel wool, wishing he'd had the foresight to grab some Ajax off the trolley, but he was unwilling to go outside again. He began scrubbing the blade, grateful for such a mindless task.
Wet rust flaked off the blade and stuck to the sides of the porcelain sink. The metal handle scratched easily, but Malik quickly decided that it would not be allowed to stay dirty. Besides, he knew how many people had bled onto this knife and caused it to rust.
His fingernails were just long enough to scrape and claw the dried gore off. Several hours passed before he considered the dull blade not to be disgusting any longer. The sink was awful, but Malik decided that could be left to the maids. Then he unlocked the door and walked out, fully intending to keep the knife to himself.
Rishid and Isis were there placing dinner on the table. Both of his siblings gave him a strange look when they saw what he was holding. Isis frowned in obvious disapproval when he told her why he wanted to keep it ("Protection." he'd said) but she turned her attention back to the bag of carrots she was opening.
Rishid asked, quietly so that Isis wouldn't take much notice, "Do you need protecting, Malik?"
His stomach lurched as he thought of the earlier events. "No."
"I'm.." 'not hungry' died at the tip of his tongue as he remembered what Ryou had said about Isis's exhibit. He grabbed a plate.
"I see you have your motorcycle back," Isis said, taking a seat.
Malik gnawed at the end of a celery stalk and hid a grimace when the stringy vegetable stuck between his teeth. "Yugi Motou wanted to go for a ride."
"Ah. Did you have fun?"
"Yes." Silence and tension filled the room. Uneasily, Malik toyed with the edges of his paper plate and finally asked, "Where is your exhibit being hosted?"
His sister's expression became stony. "I haven't had an offer."
No one ate or spoke until Malik murmured, "What are we going to do?"
Isis hesitated, opened her mouth to answer, and hesitated again. Malik was old enough, she reasoned, and experienced enough to hear the truth. He didn't need reassuring lies. Not from someone he ought to trust with honesty.
She wanted to hold him close like a child, but couldn't guess if that would insult him. The stillness dragged on.
"I don't know." She finally admitted.
Malik wasn't sure how long he'd been expecting to hear that, but those words coming from Isis sent his mind scrambling for an answer. "I could enter a competition," was the first thing that came to mind.
"No!" Malik, and even Isis, flinched at the harshness in her voice. She softened her tone immediately. "Brother, you cannot go up against the Pharaoh."
How could he have overlooked the fact that Yugi would enter any competition he found here? Sullenly he tried again. "I could get a job."
"You could. If we lived here long enough."
Malik sighed impatiently and shook his head. He was trying to fix this, but everything Isis said pointed out the flaws in his plans. And everything she said was true. He was unwilling to follow through with his next offer, but spitefully he said it anyway, desperate to find at least one thing that Isis wouldn't be able to punch a hole in. "I could sell my motorcycle."
"I don't want you to do that, brother." She didn't look at him, didn't voice the thought that it was inevitable.
A/N: **Well, as Borath pointed out, that was a pretty vague description. I don't remember what the big machine was. . Might've been an X-ray, but had to get X-rays on my leg a few months after Big Machine incident and the two machines looked different, so I don't think it was. Then again, I might've seen it as bigger than it was. Being on a stretcher makes things seem really huge.