I don't own anything so don't sue. This is Yaoi, and flames help me write faster. This is Marik's pov. I really love Malik; I think he's an interesting character.

Demon's Perspective

I never went away, I don't think that I am capable of leaving you. You haunt my mind, and even though I have nothing but dreams I continue to watch you. Why are you so indifferent to me? Surely you must notice, even if I wait ten thousand years.

He's beautiful in the moonlight, gilded and dark. He hasn't conformed yet to the common way of sleeping, no matter how much he may love their odd rumbling and metallic machinery, so his headrest is simple palm wood, polished smooth and lined with loving care. The light filters softly through thin, roughly woven cotton, and the soft whorls of sand eroded stone. He could be a statue, but for quiet breathing, pale lashes distinct against smooth skin, and he's lovely in the moonlight.

He's almost trapped in a cage of silver light, and he's nobody's but whoever might choose to possess him. I reach out my hands, but it's futile, he can't hear me approach, but my touch skitters over his coverlets. He's weighed almost imperceptibly with amulets; bits and pieces of stone and twisted metal that enclose him in a delicate net of thread like protections, they jangle delicately, a mocking testimony to his distrust.

He's insane, and I think I love that about him.

He likes to laugh, it's a charming sound, strong and unafraid, the swirls of glittering golden and brown dust whirling in soft stinging clouds around his tanned feet and torso, his clothing swishing as he completes his revolution, and settling into place with a distinct movement, reminiscent of a ballerina bowing to her audience; wide eyes alive and certain and almost infinite, as if you could see everything about him inside that glass bright gaze. But nobody looks, they're afraid, I think.

He frightens me sometimes, just a little, he's far too beautiful and passionate and wild to be alive. There's a deceiving fragility about his bones, light and slender, but capable of bending iron if by merely will alone. His cheeks flush, full mouth smiling, desert rose shading high cheekbones, eyes almost too bright, too innocent. He reminds me of a kitten when angry, furiously attacking its opponent, too young to understand death and suffering, so its merciless attacks are and would be almost tragic, simply because its nobody's fault. Kittens have odd, unquestionable beliefs that are true, in their worlds at least, so doesn't it make sense, dearest, that what you believe would be your world?

He's not an innocent, not really. The innocent are naive, and that's a flaw, not something to be admired. His sister works at a museum, if you can call it working, organizing the exhibits. He likes to play there, wandering around with fascinated stares at the blobs and thick streaks of paint that make up beautiful paintings, clambering over the interactive sculptures that are so cool to the touch, delighted and wickedly amused, or simply napping in the tall white sunlight filled halls with odd wires lining the ceilings. The exhibit there last week was some kind of new age art, all chunky shapes and long angles. There was one that particularly fascinated him, an entire sheet of simple black shapes, like magnets haphazardly attached to a refrigerator door. The composition was ordinary, but the broad expanse of black almost didn't refract light. The critics called it, 'deep, captivating and extraordinarily dark', which confused him very much. It confused me too. Why couldn't they simply call it a sheet of pure black? Why were only other colors called pure? If something is simply unsoiled by another substance or color, it is pure. Why can't black be pure too? After all, it's untouched and yet multi-faceted, people just don't notice. And I thought about how sad it was, it was a color just as much as the others, but the black couldn't even be called pure.

I'm not always that happy with his life.

There are too many people that look at him, far too many that watch him with envious or startled eyes, and stare wide eyed when he departs. They shouldn't look at him, they're afraid and unseeing of how truly lovely he is. Some see, and they're afraid, terribly shocked.

Sometimes people think he's an angel, a holy creature, flawless and debauched and angrily vivid, wisps of white gold hair framing his face, his eyes hidden by sandy lashes and filled with changeable, shadowed colors, shifting like a mirage of brilliant shards of rainbow. He stuns them with his actions, dazzles them like a magician. He's often upset, childishly petulant and furiously golden, shockingly and luminously so. He doesn't hear them though, probably because he thinks they're foolish and dreary, like the endless sand pitted stone walls that children play with, and just as fascinatingly complex. Other fools think he's a demon, breath catching and deadly, so efficient in his fluid movements that he purposefully twists their minds, capturing their souls like a handful of fragile butterflies. He's really neither, you know, because he doesn't choose to be.

Stop, help! Please! Please, Father!

I don't want to! I don't want to stay in the darkness all my life!

The little boy dreams. He's surrounded by wraiths, forgotten memories and lonely souls. He dreams of a ordinary family, that goes to bazaars and bargains for food laughingly, and of a machine that strong, and rumbles interestingly underneath him, and smells of oil and strong grease, wonderful smells, and he explores it, fascinated, peering at it and hugging it, and polishing it, half kneeling so his bare feet stick out in the dirt, until his sister comes out with cookies and leans against the doorway in her apron, and mock sternly orders him to wash up, and his big brother comes home, and plays board games with him and watches television with him, and when its time for bed swings him around and around, high up in the air, a dizzying feeling of exhilaration and helplessness and trust and the warm glow of laughter and love surrounding him, and he smiles. And then he wakes up, and feels the ache across his shoulders, and a drying stickiness he knows is blood, his blood, and he closes his eyes, but really, it doesn't do any good. Because there's a difference between dreams and reality, and that's what he truly hates. But it doesn't matter. It never will.

I'm almost glad of his nightmares, when he twists and murmurs almost inaudibly, except he would never, could never, ever, ever lose complete and utter control of himself, the thought, for him, is too frightening to contemplate. For him, perhaps. I like it when that happens, until he awakes and paces insistently, unrelentingly until he's exhausted and simply lies in his bed, and stares at his pretty thin little wrists and delicate rice paper thin skin and the purple blue veins that are slightly visible, like the legs of dead spiders, and simply watches, because he sees clots of sticky crimson black liquid on them, and that's what he dreams of, opalescent bubbles of milky liquids and dragonfly wings, covered with the thin films of golden brown netting as thin as an onion's husk, and the faintly metallic tang of blood and pink meat lined and threaded with warm white fat, of murky yellow water reflecting stormy blue with thin leather tough cattails and a heron calling, and twisted trees dripping pearly jewel embedded fruits, and childishly drawn yellow stars, and he thinks that Freud was an idiot, a complete moron. And I agree with him, because it's stupid and the only thing I can do.

I'm fairly sure what I wanted once, as sure as I can be about anything, I suppose. I wanted many wonderful things I had never experienced, intricate and simple. I expected him to be almost everything he was, to respond eagerly and unsurely to everything I had to offer, to luxuriously immerse himself in the rich, rankly foul dirt that was so shocking, a forbidden, almost unwanted pleasure, so unsure and wrong it trembled through that frail body and provided a thrilling high. So easy to deny found pleasure in that wrongness, so clearly loathable the belief of easy acceptance and unregretful denial was a mere grasp away.

And I thought he did. I honestly believed that it happened that way. I was blinded. I was a fool.

He accepted it. He took it with a contemptuous grace that was clearly belied with the hatred in his gentle smile. It was twisted and sadistic, and perfectly ordinary. In retrospect, it was…almost vicious. There was laziness in his movements that led me to think he might have a shred more potential then I had previously thought. A puzzling development, something I hadn't expected at all. So I watched him. And I followed him. It was simple; I had no pressing business. And then there simply was no alternative.

He succeeded my hopes. He showed signs of truly becoming something special, a key piece in the game I was playing. He was deadly, readily divorcing his closest family ties that were not beneficial to him without a flinch, so callously shedding his former shell I was truly pleased. And I continued to watch him.

He was alone, mostly. That was…good. He would be less distracted that way, more focused. More powerful. Perhaps…

He likes supermarkets. He likes the way they sound, loud hollow human voices broadcasting over the heads of the shoppers, the noise flowing in liquid lines over the white ceiling, avoiding the florescent lighting dimly white yellow light flickering with pale purple and green, light as smoke, with shrill static interruptions as regular and concisely fuzzy as the thin black barcodes. He likes the people, self-centered and uncaring, who passed on by, chatting, bickering insistently, not paying attention to anyone else except to comment or hurriedly apologize insincerely, clutching their crinkled shopping bags possessively, or holding them lazily away from themselves with drooping wrists. He likes to look at the food, wrapped neatly in twists of wax paper or in shiny clear plastic, the stiff, brightly colored cardboard boxes with unrealistically delicious looking pictures crossing the fronts, the chill of the frozen foods section, thick white frosts clouding the parcels of food. He likes the sugary, slightly crumbly pop tarts, and he loves to warm a penny on the shiny steel heaters, and pretend to be an ordinary, aimless shopper. He really loves it.

All the people, they deserve to die. Their families deserve to cry and scream and curse, simply because they'll finally experience what I went through. And they won't forget me, even in their ravings.

It was sudden, when the girl managing the deli dropped to the ground, still and bleeding, absent dust and bits of broken vegetable clinging to her navy striped apron, her blood impossibly red and even inconspicuous against the cracked floor. It was so startlingly unbelievable that the people around seemed almost tempted, belatedly stunned to act as though nothing was wrong. But this man, ordinary and normal and huge, magnified by fear and a vague sense of unreality, a heightened sense of sudden awareness on him, made him seem impossibly threatening. So they stood frozen like stupid little cattle, and he, of course, did the only sensible and predictable action for a madman, or a terrorist, and grabbed a hostage.

What does it mean when you feel like your heart is going to burst, like there is only one focal point in your world, nothing else that matters, nothing more important or desperate or possessive? What does it mean when you want to run away and yet the only thing that you can think of is what happens next? I don't understand.

The mortal took him, dragged him upright with his heavy pitiful arms and held the unreflecting black barrel to his head, stifling and choking him effectively. And I watched, because this was of little importance, as dangerous as a midday walk. There were policemen, somehow, and gently murmuring men and women whose faces were blurred and everything was white blue grey, and sticky and humid and sickening, but he was small and unobtrusively beautiful even with his shoulders hunched and small chin jutting upwards. And the man was saying something I couldn't quite hear, a human bellow speaking of despair and unfairness, but it didn't matter, didn't matter at all.

Welcome to my home, little fly. I'm sorry, truly sorry, but it doesn't matter if I live or die. What would I do if you hurt one of these people? As long as I can, I will try to make you understand.

And then he turned, slightly in the man's rough hold, and started talking. The first few words were clear and crisp, wide eyes looking up at him in a parody of innocence, unseeing, like a seer's, a blank clearness. His words had changed, his voice gentler, low, solely directed at the murderer who held him in an angry cage, then lilting, sardonic, yet implacable. I saw him. I watched the man who threatened him tell him to be silent, unable to stand up to the truths, the reasons, humanizing the enemies that haunted him, putting them on equal footings, something so impossible to grasp it was as far away as he was.

And he broke, the murderer broke, and shattered, and gave up hope and sorrow and pain for guilt that was rightfully his. And that was the power he possessed, the potential. I supposed that was why he shone so brightly, was so inexplicably a paradox.

He took that man with him, who promised him servitude and frank obedience while threatening to betray him, because he understood. And he laughed, because the whole thing was extremely amusing, but he had to go on and play and was missing the wonderful brightly golden sunshine and flower honey scents, but now somebody would help be with him, which was good, and he might be able to forgive or condemn that man. But it didn't really matter anyway.

And they outran the police cars, and hid in the swings of a playground. The terrorist had never seen anyone like this stranger, who was currently picking up shiny rocks and flower petals off the pebbled ground, and completely ignoring the man who had just threatened him, then had an emotional breakdown.

So he asked the stranger," Do you want me to thank you for that stunt?" and the boy looked up, lavender eyes wide and gold flecked, like a cat's, pink and white petals catching in his hair, his dusky hands full of flowers and bits of rock crystal and mica, his shoulders and back flattening like a child caught in the proverbial cookie jar. Then he smiled, obscurely puzzled by the man's attitude, and asked what seemed to be the right question, "For what?"

I think I realized then how inescapably I was lost.

I'm fairly sure he knows that I watch him, surely he must notice that shadows are more frequent even in the mildest dark, the night deeper nearest him and almost velvet solid. How could he miss the eyes that watch his every move from the crimson reaches of Hell? Please, someday acknowledge me in your own fashion. I'll wait, but nothing is guaranteed.

Owari

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Silently Broken; it's great to meet a het fan, thank you for your review. I'm sorry for the misunderstanding, though, all my pairings were yaoi. I'm very fond of het, so please don't stop reading my fics and reviewing, because I really appreciate it. I know it was an easy mistake to make, I realized that when I re-read it, but it was meant to be vague, because of the point of view. The key to seeing the pairing is when I described the sketches. Shizuka's was done in pencil; Jou's were done in charcoal. When Ryou and Bakura are talking, they discuss the fact Seto had picked out a charcoal sketch, his own were done in ink. Basically, Seto was oblivious to the crush both of the siblings had on him, but figured out he liked Jou. It wasn't an official pairing, just a hint of what might happen should they choose to pursue that course of action. It was confusing, and the sort of mistake that will probably happen again, so I'll have to be more careful, so thank you for showing me that.

Selanika: Hey! Thank you so much for the review; these are my first fics, so it's great to have that kind of encouragement. I'm very grateful to you for reviewing.

Please comment, or simply say Hi so I'll know you're reading this.

Orahiko