Chapter 8: Misunderstanding or Marik's Pain.

"What're those for?" Ryou asked as Malik laid the keys he had been given by Marik on the table; he had hidden them in his hand for the journey home, just thinking about how strange Marik was acting at the moment.

"Marik's motorbike…" The Egyptian answered, confused. "I have to go to his place to get it. He gave them to me earlier in the supermarket when I saw him."

"You're not going." The stern answer from Bakura left no room for argument. "That sick bastard psycho is just going to hurt you, I'm not going to let you go near him."

"I know." Malik laid a hand on Bakura's arm to stop him before he really got going. "I don't want his pity gifts. I was going to give the keys back to him."

"I'll take them for you." Bakura volunteered, taking the keys from the table, again leaving no room for argument. "You stay safe with Ryou."

Marik was lying in front of his house, obviously waiting for someone; the motorbike was at rest before him. He wanted Malik to accept his most treasured possession. Somehow the thought of it eased his irrepressible grief at the other's departure.

But… then why was it Bakura storming towards him, looking peeved? Oh great, just fucking great, what had he done now? Was Malik allergic to motorbikes?

"What do you want, asshole?" The tan yami asked Bakura hatefully. "The bike isn't for you."

"I know that, shithead." Bakura returned the insult uncaringly. "I came to give this back. Malik doesn't want it. He doesn't want things that would remind him of you. Just get out of his life. He hates you." And the white-haired one threw the keys at Marik, the metal chinking together softly when they bounced off Marik's chest.

Then the tomb robber turned away and left, leaving Marik staring in disbelief at the keys. It seemed like hours, though in reality it was only seconds, the amount of time he spent running gentle fingertips over the shaped metal. Why…? Malik must really loathe him, to not accept… surely, even if he didn't want the bike itself, he could sell it for the money? It was brand new – Marik had actually got a part-time job to save up for it he had wanted it so much – it would still bring a lot of cash. It must be a mark of how much Malik hated him that he would send the keys back.

Thankfully for his reputation, Marik managed to make it back inside the house, though he had a hand on the wall for support. As soon as he was in his room upstairs, he just let himself go. He didn't care that he was crying silently. He didn't care that he was holding the keys to him as though they were a lover. He wanted to die.

Damn… damn it… he had thought so earnestly that Malik would take his bike… that, knowing his hikari's tendencies towards the romantic, it would become a friendship and become a love…

Marik knew that his disengaged thought stream made him sound like the 'wimps' that he abhorred, but he had given the keys with a love of his own, and then to have them returned so coldly that Malik wouldn't come himself, just send someone else… had everything that the platinum-haired yami could give just been brushed aside worthlessly? Was that all it was, all he was – worthless?

He wanted to die.

He wanted to die so badly, to just forsake his hikari and those stupid albino prostitutes he called lovers, to forget the confusing rush of human emotion that was sweeping him away, to release all his pain… but he knew that, created by Malik, Malik would destroy him. He couldn't die until Malik died.

But the strangely comforting thought that, ultimately, Malik would be the one to kill him didn't satisfy him enough. For once he wanted to cause himself ultimate pain, to slide the cold metal of a sharp blade into his arm and drag it, what a feeling that would be… to spend the rest of his life in a coma, at least then Malik would be happy, his hikari obviously hated him so much…

The next day it was a Sunday, and time for the Bakuras (which now included Malik as an honorary member of the family) to take their trash to the tip. Malik was happy to participate, and both white-haired ones found it quite cute how he struggled with three bags, each almost as big as him, to take.

"Here, let me take one of these before you do yourself an injury." Bakura took one of the bags, leaving each of them with two.

Malik suddenly dropped one of his bags, and before either Ryou or Bakura could ask him what was wrong, he had pointed out the source of his shock: Marik was just coming out of the gates to the scrap yard. Bakura tensed, but his protectiveness was in vain; Marik just ignored them as he walked past.

"He's gotten thinner…" Malik stated once they were sure the tan yami had gone. He was actually quite concerned; contrary to what Marik so avidly believe, Malik did not hate his yami, he was just saddened that the more aggressive Egyptian had felt the need to hurt him.

"Good!" Bakura snapped irately. "Maybe he'll die and do us all a favour!"

"Bakura…" Ryou shook his head. "You shouldn't say things like that, even if you're not serious. You could hurt someone."

"Oh!" Malik, who had gone on ahead to dump his bags, had stopped in shock. For, in obvious view, was Marik's beloved motorbike, in the heap of trash and scrap metal, blindingly obvious as it was the only brand new thing in the dump. The keys were on the seat, anyone could just take the bike.

"That's Marik's, isn't it…?" Ryou asked, causing Malik to give a little start; he hadn't noticed the milder Briton sneak up behind him like that. "It's a shame. It looks pretty expensive. What do you suppose is wrong with it?"

"Nothing…" Malik shook his head, unable to tear his lilac eyes away from the bike. "He only bought it a couple of days ago, he hasn't even ridden it yet, he's been saving up for it for ages since he saw it in the shop last year, he wanted it so bad he even went out and got a job to make the money for it…"

"Then why do you suppose he's dumped it?"

"Because he's an insane psycho, that's why." Bakura snorted, dumping his bags. "I don't know what sick demented game he's thinking up now, but I can tell you, I won't let it work."

Contrary to Bakura's outburst, however, Marik had probably never been more sober in his life. He knew full well what he was doing, even though it pained and even scared him, he didn't want to see what stared back at him in the mirror, he didn't want to look at Malik's handsome face and have it denied him again. That meeting at the dump had been the last straw.

He could feel the blood seeping down his fingers, down his arm, finally dripping off his elbow, but he didn't care. The pain in his head was almost unbearable now, but it was slowly dimming into numbness. The blackness that had swallowed him was terrifying.

He was crying, for the last time ever. His tears were mixed with the blood that was coming from his injured eyes. Though blindness was his greatest phobia, he hoped he would never see again. He told himself that he wanted this fear, welcomed this pain.

When he had returned to his house, Marik had sat down to think about the situation with Malik, and had driven himself into such an insane depression that, before he fully comprehended what he was doing, he was digging his fingers into his eyes, pressing hard. Stars were exploding before his vision, but he pressed harder, and harder still, until he felt the backs of his eyes break the blood vessels in the sockets, until he felt the hot liquid stream down his fingers down his cheeks to make it look like he was crying blood.

Malik would be glad, he told himself. Malik would celebrate. Malik hated him. Malik would be happy that Marik would not be able to look at him any longer.

He had thrown his bike away because he no longer wanted it. It seemed that, after it had been rejected by Malik, his obsession with saving up for it and buying it seemed pointless. It suddenly seemed worthless, not as precious to him as it once was, and this thought depressed him more. He had loved that bike, but after Malik's rejection he just came to think of it with indifference, which soon turned to dislike, and even to hatred.

So he had dumped the brand new bike, not even a week after he had bought it. It just hadn't seemed worth it any more. To him, nothing seemed to have a point any more. He had been so torn and so depressed he hadn't been able to sleep or even eat, which explained the sudden weight loss. Anything he forced himself to eat he vomited up almost immediately.

Reaching out, he found a bandage that had been conveniently close by, wrapping it loosely around where his eyes had once been to stop the bleeding, if only so he would be able to feel the pain he knew he deserved instead of fainting. On some level, Marik wondered what life without sight would be like. Luckily, he knew the house so well using his other senses, because he quite often walked around with his eyes closed; he was far too lazy to actually wake up in the mornings. Had been. Now he just didn't sleep.

"I hope you're happy now, Malik…" He murmured, though there was no malice behind the remarkably sincere words. He really did hope Malik was happy, that was the last thing he had left to hope for. It was embarrassing; he, a being made of hatred, falling victim to such human emotions. He was far too proud to actually tell Malik his feelings, far too arrogant to trust Bakura or Ryou with it – besides, he loathed Bakura. And he had no one to talk to, so his feelings stayed cooped up inside until they took him over and made him act irrationally.

He was already scared. He was blind, he would always be blind now, he had basically gouged his own eyes out. Unconsciously drawing himself into a ball and shivering, he was unwittingly becoming more like the child he really was and less like the sadistic, cruel man once known as Marik.

"Oh, please, someone help…"