A/N: This is a one-shot centred loosely around Otogi Ryuuji, but also dominated by Omote and Yami no Bakura. I actually came up with this idea after a night of drinking…funny, the times at which ideas choose to make themselves known.
Guardianship.
Cold, the bedroom. It caused his skin to erupt into goosepimples, and the hairs between them stood up stiff and spiked on his bare arms. He closed his eyes, felt for solidity around him. Comfort. His fingers curled around gold. Much better.
Moonlight, pale and silver, streamed through the window-panes. It filtered cleanly through, the lightest touch on his shoulder its only acknowledgement. He looked up, so that it gleamed in his eyes; and even after it was gone, still they retained a glitter, to be naively interpreted as vitality.
A sudden stab of anxiety, momentary, and he reached again for his possession. Its frictionless surface, before lubricated with blood, calmed the nerves of his nervously probing fingers, infusing them with calm. It was good that it was still here, good that it had not been taken. Such an object as this was not one which a person wished to lose. Besides, it would not be polite; it could even be interpreted as rejection. It was a gift, and therefore to be treasured, to be watched over and, if necessary, guarded. It would not do to be stripped of this item, most precious of presents. It would imply that he had treated it with carelessness, even indifference…and how offensive that would be to the giver. He would look after it, show his gratefulness. No, not gratefulness; he was not grateful, nothing that pathetic. Instead, he would display his understanding of the role which had now been bestowed upon him: that was, to be the guardian of this treasure. He would embrace the role, and let his vigour in doing so demonstrate any gratefulness.
He could see it so clearly still. Bakura Ryou, his finely cut features imploring: Otogi-kun, look after this for me. And him speechless, marvelling, as the object descended into his trembling hands.
I would give my life –
He stroked the Ring respectfully, and wondered if Ryou missed it, wherever he was. Who knew? He had just disappeared. So strange.
Perhaps it was even linked to this object; perhaps after a while, when the guardian was too drained and no longer suitable, it was signalled that now was the time for the item to be handed down to some stronger keeper. A matter of duty, for the weaker to give up his burden, and to be granted the light. Was it worth it? But when you had been reduced to that level, perhaps even something like having your own self could be a luxery. By that time, you would be grateful, wouldn't you? Glad to pass the role onto someone else. Ryou would have been more than happy for this moment to have come; he would have been ecstatic, raving. Eyes too bright, flaming. So, so kind of you! He deserved his release.
The moonlight should have bounced off the Ring; it should have been reflected off onto the walls, and by doing so illuminated the rest of the room. But it did not, and Otogi sat in darkness. The surface of the Ring, however solid to touch, was like a black hole: a yawning abyss absorbing everything that came into it. The light channelled solidly through on its one-way journey, and after a while it seemed that the direction was reversed and instead the light was coming from the Ring and out into the empty sky, so unwavering was the beam. It could be said that the Ring no longer appeared to suck the light out of the sky, so that its gleam only increased as the stars were sucked down a wall-less throat; instead, it was the giver of light, benevolently distributing it to all.
And it should have been striped with paler gold, highlights from the disc of moon blankly outside. Yet no such reassurances of three dimensions were given; it was eternally one colour, but not dull because of it. The Ring possessed such a depth of colour that it made such other shades unnecessary; dark and light had been perfectly predetermined within it to best effect, and now it lay untouched by outside influences, a perfect balance, not sidling towards one nor the other.
And the item symbolised balance in every way possible; take possession, for instance. One might think that with a spirit slumbering inside, a spirit with the ability to effortlessly conquer a body and twist it into his own, the balance would have been deemed weighted towards one end. Otogi knew this to be not so; the bearer also was elevated to a high level: had they not been chosen by this item to speak for the spirit? And even the spirit was merely a tool for the Ring, a more permanent and reliable, yet arguably less useful, puppet for the Ring to voice itself. The double element of control served to re-tip the scales, soothing them back towards centre; and with two disciples, there was twice as much worship to be had. He reasoned easily that, until the spirit was released, it was down to him to provide this double-worship; it was within his capabilities, and good practise for later on, when one of them might not be around.
The whole thing was layered with partnership, and the need for it for the whole thing to function, like machine components. They were just components, mini-machines, incomplete until they came together to make the master work. It required the two disciples to interweave, to come to a swift and effortless understanding; he believed that this was why this time round the operation would be so much more effective. To have two partners who were so different, while refreshing and oddly compelling, was ultimately not efficient. But to start off with two people who already knew each other and knew themselves to be compatible with this machine…why, that was almost fate. It was indisputable down to the last degree – and they had already shown themselves capable of joining seamlessly with one another into a greater self.
I am yours to take, and you are mine.
A light sheen of sweat misted his forehead. The pumping of liquid within him rose to a great bellowing crest, before crashing back down. Tides calmed, became constant. He smiled.
And the figure smiled at him too, guiding him. His grip tightened, and he followed.
How to resist that…it would have taken more willpower than his. And he knew he had more than some. Enough to scoff at the girls around him, with their artificially tanned skin and stringy legs gaping under too-short skirts. But not enough, it had seemed, for this. If he had been amiable from the start, Otogi would have sneered and turned away. But that sarcastic lift of the eyebrows, the dismissing look which might have actually said follow me or might not have…that could not have been ignored. It had been enough to make him seize the moment later; it had not, however, been enough to get him moving there and then. Because that would have been desperate, and that would have rendered him unworthy. He was content to wait until called, satisfied in his role as chosen. He did not need someone else to tell him; and it would have been beyond the spirit's place to do so, anyway. Because in the end, they were all tools. The Ring had told him so. And its spirit, spark of something that might have been his own life or merely a reflection of his irrelevant host crimson in his eyes, had told him so too, as he pulled him down.
Acknowledgement was key to the entire process transposing to the next level. Like evolution – with each level the people affected became more perfected; but to do so you needed relatively perfect people to begin with. Hence the requirement of new people every so often. It went without saying that Ryou knew this, for had he not willingly given up his role?
It's yours now. Take it.
Something like that. A bit more desperate, perhaps; but then perhaps it was a subconscious thing: in an effort to preserve Ryou's name, he was being…well, a bit nice. Covering up past deeds, colouring the light so that it displayed him a little better, that sort of thing. Come to think of it, even taking the Ring was a fucking decent thing to do: you would have thought he could have tried to look a bit more grateful. Considering the burdens the task involved.
I'm giving you your life back, Ryou.
He hadn't even smiled. No wonder the Ring had left him. He was barely even worthy in the first place. Of course, it could be argued that in choosing him to be its guardian, the Ring had made an error; and yet this was not so, and the argument was easily dissolved; Otogi could do it even with his mind weighted foggy with sleep. The Ring knew a lot, but despite its ability to read character, it might be swayed by appearances. Or pity; even the mightiest rulers were not without compassion. Perhaps it had bestowed the task upon Ryou with the intention of making him equal to the task, of moulding him in a shape suitable enough to be projected as its image. A representative had to be aesthetically suitable as well. The Puzzle appeared to have made a severely misinformed judgement in that area; but the Puzzle was merely an object, and could be excused.
He did not want to consider the Puzzle; doing so inevitably brought his mind back to how it had looked dangling from a lanky chain around the neck of an undersized child, and so adding further to the air of ridicule; the Ring, in its eternal perfection of judgement, had avoided that. And such openness, such unlimited amiability from its vessel…whereas Ryou suited the Ring, managing always an air of quiet dignity bordering on sombreness. No need to be outgoing, to be constantly seeking friends; there, at least, the child knew his place. Such an attitude of openness did not suit the representative of the Ring. What was required, and what he generally managed to get out, was an attitude of distance stemming not from shyness or animosity but rather of someone a little reserved, but not lacking or withdrawn, and willing to entire the tiresome circle when it became necessary, even to converse at length if required. Granted, this broad range of skills asked a lot of Ryou, from whom all this did not seem to come naturally; over the years, however, he seemed to have found it within himself to fulfil the tasks required to some acceptable degree of success. Almost admirable, that someone who obviously had no inner strength or great talent to draw all this from had still managed to fulfil the criteria eventually. And another example of the Ring's ability to draw out things from within people.
After all, Ryou would not be so ridiculously stupid or comfortable in his façade to throw a party at his house, and then hope, nay, expect, his tenant to 'go along with it.' He would wait until secure in his projection of normality, and then ask permission with the required meekness and subdued tone. And when the refusal came, it would be greeted with acceptance, and servile understanding. To think that Motou Yugi had dared to do such a thing…and so brazenly. And the spirit within him either indifferent or, worse, willing to turn an indulgently blind eye to such an excess…blasphemy. Of the Puzzle, of the entire structure…
He clenched his fists, and watched as the veins ran, pulsing blue strings, over his knuckles.
As much as he hated say it, it could have been worse. And there had, thankfully, been alcohol. Enough to subdue his initial rage, the thing that bubbled viscously in his throat like mutated phlegm as he forced himself to smile and say, "I hope I am not late?" And enough to crush irritating thoughts of argument, as he felt himself become fully convinced that he was chosen. And enough to see the slight nod from the spirit that told him that he knew it too.
"You chose me." The words a thick crooning mutter, as he stroked the Ring's surface, now slicked with perspiration. He reached out with his finger and spread it, rubbing it in with little circles. Oh, that it would be tinged red.
He had known that Ryou would be pleased to see him, knew that he would surely have lost hours of sleep anticipating this new meeting. And indeed he had appeared to be running high on unspent emotion, eyes glassy with a feverish look with Otogi had not seen in him since the beginning. Despite that, his voice had been dull, a monotone. It could not have been easy, knowing that soon he was to give up this role which he had centred his life around. Otogi could sympathise, and understand his anxiety: what to do now? How was he to spend his time? Everything to be so different.
…………
"You need alcohol."
"N-No, it's okay; I don't drink." Jittery hands push the bottle away.
"You should."
"I mustn't. It…it would threaten my purity. I…I have to stay pure."
"Who says that?" Softly. But the tone is a façade: even such an indirect mention causes a slam of adrenaline.
"This thing…inside me. It says…it says that I'm a landlord, that I have to keep my body unblemished inside and out."
"That's very true. But we should not refer to our master as an 'it', Ryou-kun. It suggests disrespect."
Ryou laughed shrilly. "Naughty. We have to remain respectful."
"That's right. So a 'He' will suffice, at least for now." Of course, a vessel such as this could not come this far down the road and hope to emerge exactly as he had started; Otogi had learned to assume a calm, controlled tone with Ryou, having learned that many other things induced panic or violence, especially when the conversation involved even an indirect referral to the being above them.
He filled the container. "But, this time, as the exchange is so near…I think he will understand. The occasional indulgence can be overlooked; and remember, you deserve this." He raised the glass to Ryou's lips.
The young vessel shakily put out a hand as the glass was guided forth. "When you talk about an 'exchange,' you mean-"
"It's time, Ryou-kun. Soon you will be relieved of your burden."
"M-my burden…?" He looked confused. "You don't mean…"
"Yes. Bodies decay. Minds too. And he requires his place of residence to be as near to perfection as our feeble minds are capable of contemplating."
Ryou trembled. "I know that I'm…I'm not perfect…everyone tells me so, but-"
"People make mistakes. Others, not so. But you aren't perfect, Ryou-kun…in fact, every day you grow less so."
Eyes widen. The orbs within them tremble again in their fragile cradle. "You mean…"
Emphatically, yet with just the right touch of compassion, a nod.
"No." The word shakily whispered. "I…I won't give it up. It was a…a present…from my father…I can't give it up."
His shoulder is gently touched. "It's hard."
"No!" Ryou shook the hand off. "You're just like everybody else…wanting to steal it. It's mine."
Anger. Throbbing and deep. "You dare to accuse me of being just like them? It chose me. It needs me."
"The other me will stop you. He'll never let it go. And he'll never let you touch me."
Otogi laughed in his face.
…………
He laughed now, too. Low and satisfied and pitying, because Ryou's mind had by then been cracked and nearly useless, and by then he was barely recognising faces, because there was another one permanently in his vision. When the time had come, and the recognition of the event had belatedly occurred, he had been happy enough to comply. Prompts had been necessary, and a little gentle pushing from his other, but other than that the entire transferral had gone ahead more-or-less smoothly. And Ryou had been peaceful enough by the end of it, so that eventually it had all turned out well.
Quite incredible, in fact, when you took in account the slightly less than orthodox and certainly not dignified start.
…………
The night air was spiteful, nipping maliciously at the exposed skin of his face and hands. He should have brought a coat with him. Instead he felt the tiny hairs along his hands ruffled and the occasional tickling of his hair as it blew this way and that; irritating, but not especially so.
He had ventured out onto the balcony to ponder, safe in the knowledge that he was alone in the spare bedroom, while everyone else contented themselves with systematically rotting away their brains with alcohol. Normally he would have joined them in this peculiar and slightly unfathomable pleasure of feeling his sobriety steadily eroding. Tonight, however, he felt estranged, moving on a different plane to the best of them as he contemplated his Becoming, and wondered when Ryou would decided on the moment for the final exchange. A little aggravating, having to let the timing hang on such a person; yet he discerned that perhaps there was an element of indulgence in his decision. Ryou would have no point left to his life after this; hell, his life would be as good as over, soon to be just as without purpose as the idiot teenagers who cavorted a floor beneath him, alcohol lending them exotic wings. It would be kind to let him have one final say, one last choice of any importance.
He steepled his fingers, expression thoughtful. Not so immersed in his own thoughts was he, however, that he did not hear the stumbling gait of some intoxicated person making their wandering way across the room; nor did he miss the loudly muttered 'Fuck' as they tripped over something obvious.
Thus, his face was prepared and blank when he turned round, and surveyed with some interest the slightly unsteady form of Ryou. Albeit, a very much possessed Ryou.
Otogi tensed, letting none of his building excitement enter his voice. "Nice night."
"Fucking cold, I think you mean." The spirit did a reasonable job of appearing to slouch lazily against the balcony wall, when in fact his muscles were slackening to the extent that standing upright was presenting a severe challenge.
He smiled a little. "That as well."
The entity snorted and fell silent, staring moodily over the side to the vegetation below. He appeared to find something down there fascinating, judging from the way he was leaning over to get a closer look. Otogi happened to look up after a moment, and managed to grab him just as he began to tip over.
"Whoops." Giggly laughter.
He rolled his eyes and shoved the spirit in the direction of the bedroom. The Ring's spirit got the point after a few steps and managed to get through the doorway. "I swear doorways are getting narrower."
Ryou's body had probably never met such copious amounts of alcohol in its life; it was a damn good thing the exchange was happening tonight. God knows the sorts of long-term effects this was happening on the current vessel.
"Why don't you just concentrate on standing upright?" He assumed that the spirit was not too far-gone not to hear the sarcasm.
"I never turn down a challenge." Definitely a slur lacing those words together.
Otogi sighed. Tempting though it was to leave the spirit in this state of happy oblivion, it was necessary for him to have at least some awareness of what was going on, or else the whole thing threatened to become one huge farce. And he had waited too long for this already; it had to proceed with some dignity. "I'm going to get you some coffee."
When he came back up, the spirit of the Ring was sitting down on the bed. He appeared to have recovered a little; his gaze, when it met Otogi's, was steady. In fact, there was an interested look in them – one of appraisal. "So…coffee?"
It was handed to him. Otogi watched silently as he drank, watching the way his lips parted just a little as he sipped, watching as his eyes dropped down to gaze for a moment into the black of the cup, so that they were semi-hidden behind sooty lashes. The spirit placed the cup on the bedside table, cords standing out in his arm, or so Otogi supposed: a close-fitting black shirt clung to his upper body. He had never realised, even during hours of scrutiny, that the Ring's representative was always clothed completely in black: strange how the same outfit could cause Ryou to disappear into the shadows behind him, even as it made the other stand out. He heard a rustle of material as the entity settled back into place, black crinkling into minute folds.
He hesitated – no, merely waited a moment – before sitting down next to him. All this time with its spirit in the room with him, and yet he had not looked at the Ring once. It should have felt like sacrilege, and he told himself that it did, as he stared abruptly down at it.
"You still want it, hm?"
He glanced up sharply, but the other's expression did not contain a challenge. On the contrary, it was a little disinterested, a little bored.
Otogi moved his shoulders in a shrug. "I desire to become joined with it, naturally. Considering it was I who should have worn it originally, is it not understandable?"
"We can't dispute that." Soft, velvety laugh, exquisite to hear. "Although some would love to…the yadonushi, he is of the opinion that you wish to steal it."
"Ryou's opinions are not always based on current knowledge."
"That is true," the spirit agreed. Otogi was finding himself mesmerised by that voice: a low murmur, yet perfectly audible, smooth and unbroken by hesitation, like wine being poured with a steady hand.
Then a white hand took him and pulled him down, so that he was falling into the spirit and it seemed as if he would never touch the bed again.
…………
"Oops."
He stilled, body heaving, and felt something unfamiliar, an undiscovered area within the spirit, tense.
"It seems that I can't hold on forever, hmm, Otogi-san?"
And then it was Ryou that shivered beneath him, limbs clumsy. His stupid brown eyes widened. "What…?"
Overcome with rage, Otogi struck him across the face. "Get him back!"
"I-I can't-"
"Get him back!"
Ryou, quivering beneath him. Useless. And Otogi seized a knife from the boy's belt and slashed wildly at him so that the pretty shell was cracked and screaming.
"What are you doing?"
The host rolled off the bed, and his feet pounded on the carpet as he raced for the door; Otogi grabbed him easily and flung him back. "You have one chance to get him back."
"But I can't, he j-just went-"
"Wrong answer." He began to move the knife to and fro across his palm. It made a thin, high sound as it began to part flesh, like a last wail.
The host's eyes met his, watery and weak. "…But…"
Slicing. And, for a while, screaming. At first Otogi's face was grim; then it was animated with expressions of wonder. Blood bursting forth, the light crimson. Hot bubbling on skin. The body erupting beneath him, yielding in its final bloodied explosion.
Then, the end. Ryou still moaning beneath him, insides outside and decorating the wall. He looked so beautiful; Otogi knew now what the spirit saw in him. Carpet spiked beneath him into bloody tufts. It looked quite funny.
He leaned over, brushed the hair out of the host's face. Red lines trailing over his cheeks. He smeared them together into a thick, soupy paint that was rubbed tenderly down the neck.
Eyes the red-brown of clotting blood opened, hazed over, re-opened. Hoarse rasp, lubricated by the rising of red in his throat: "…It…it's me…"
"Die with dignity, Ryou-kun. It would not be proper to have your last words a lie. And that is why…I will make it so." He cleaved with the blade, and the face collapsed beneath it like a fresh scab, revealing a liquid centre. He heard the splash, and bright, liquid-fire spilled out, coating it and him and them with itself.
He lifted up the ruined face, and tenderly eased out the cord of the Ring. It was damp and rotting under his fingers, and the fibres parted beneath his loving fingers. The Ring's surface was moist; overcome by his love for it, and at finally being so close, he rubbed it over his face, so that every particle could touch his. It was slick and slippery in his hands, like a dead fish. Slimy. Reverently, his fingers closed over it again, unmindful of the blood oozing silently out. At last, together.
…………
The anxiety came again and he clasped it between his hands. The spirit looked at him, one eyebrow half-raised in that quietly satirical way. You are so fucking paranoid.
I know.
And they laughed together, the spirit silently, Otogi out loud. He liked the way the muscles at the base of the other's neck bunched together when he laughed; it made him look so alive. Amazing, the way every little emotion was manifested so accurately and so instantly in his outer body. It was as if it were welded to him, and not the other way round. A skin so tight that you had to scrap to see what was underneath.
Ryou looked at his other in basic confusion, seeking comfort. Why are you two always laughing?
We don't always, my yadonushi. Only when someone dies.
And he looked at Otogi, and Otogi looked at him, and they both laughed again.
But the Ring lay on the floor, and the blood was still moist.
……………
A/N: I really don't know what to think of this. It went off in completely different directions to the ones I had originally planned, and the style…I don't really like my writing style in this. I was aiming for something a little more like 'Sacrilege', or even the effective simplicity of 'Beginning.' Meh.