Yu-gi-oh and its characters belong to Kazuki Takahashi. Does anyone else wonder how he feels about all this fanfiction?
This is probably the cheesiest chapter I've written, but Yu-gi-oh can be a cheesy show, and I mean in a good way.
Please read and review. And please check out "Invisible Ink," a new story I wouldn't mind having some feedback on. Thank you.
From the Ashes, a Spark
Kaiba spent the flight home from Egypt staring out the window of the jet. The black and indigo of the ocean seemed as frozen as the tawny sands of the desert. City lights blinked tiny all those miles down. The sky itself changed topography, with the clouds forming tundras and plowed fields, and sometimes there were no clouds at all, so the land stood bare below him. He wondered what it would feel like to fall through the clouds, and whether they were as cool and soft as they looked. He saw her face in every other cloud. He saw it in the surface of the ocean. He realized that he believed in destiny. He told it to go fuck itself.
As soon as the house staff had cleared out of the mansion's foyer, he wrapped his arms around Mokuba. Mokuba didn't say anything, and didn't move, letting Kaiba be the first to let go.
When Kaiba finally let go, Mokuba patted him on the arm and went to his own room. Kaiba went to his secret study.
The pencil drawing of Kisara was still on the desk, propped up by the crystal blue paperweight. His Blue Eyes, his goddess, was waiting for him. He sat in front of her picture.
Kaiba felt a little jerk in his chest, and then felt a pop, like a tiny seam bursting.
Seconds later, he was on his hands and knees.
He was inside his body, but his body was a diving bell, and he was inside it and yet apart from it. He heard his own sobs and gasps. He felt howls and screams tear at the membrane of his throat, and the swelling in his sinuses. He saw the blurring sloughs of his tears, and yet, he felt brain dead. He didn't even try to stop himself from crying, or to get himself off the ground. He didn't care enough.
He found himself on his belly, hiccupping. Every so often he would shudder out a few more tears, but it was mostly over. As he quieted, he realized that he had grabbed the pencil drawing of the Blue Eyes goddess
(O Kisara)
and it had fallen to the floor with him. It lay under his fingers.
Kisara. The syllables of her name, whether taken apart or woven together like the steps of a dance, were the lines of an exquisite hymn. The first syllable was a key that unlocked all doors, the alpha, and then blended with the second to kiss the ear in a breath of lilac and lotus perfume, and then the second syllable melted into the third and glowed silver, like the moon. The name was an oasis to him from the numbness that his mind used to cloak his agony.
He pulled himself up into his chair and propped his head up on his elbow, his fingers pressing into one eyelid while the other stared at the pencil drawing he held. It was such a pathetic facsimile, and now he would never see the real girl again. He would never get to kiss her, and see if she tasted like green apples and spearmint, like he suspected. He would never get to hold her tiny, silken hand, or make love to her. He would never be inside her, which would have been a sensation untouchable by language. He had failed to protect her, the beauty he had been entrusted with, and now, he could only pull her card from his deck, and put it in attack or defense mode. That was his punishment.
Another jerk, another pop, this time in his shoulders.
A few minutes later, he looked at the ransacked room. Pencils were snapped in two and pens were bent double. A few paper shreds were still making their graceful descent to the floor after being ravaged. The paperweight that had propped up the drawing of Kisara was now lodged into the wall. It stared at him disapprovingly.
Kaiba felt woozy and moved to the wall, letting it support his slide down to the floor. His whole face felt raw.
Is this how I'm going to feel for the rest of my life?
He asked this question of the universe, but didn't get a response. He knew the answer, anyway. And he knew he couldn't take it.
He thought back on his mother and father, so long ago. He didn't even get a chance to know them enough so he could grieve them properly, to stockpile more memories, sharper memories, next to those soft focus shots of dancing on feet or leaning on a belly. Then there were the Prossers, and their diapers and their matches. Then destiny handed him to Gozaboru, with his sly coldness and spittle launching barks, and the tutors with the riding crops. Then destiny gave him a gift, something that would make a century in hell be worthwhile, only to snatch it away.
Leaving a playing card as a consolation prize.
He scanned the secret study. He could see himself now. There was a streak of snot on his upper lip, but over that his blue eyes were clear, bright, and determined, and only a little pink. His lip were pressed together cool determination.
He remembered where it was. He stood up and shambled over to the desk, where he lowered himself into the chair. He fiddled under the desk, and the secret drawer popped open. He pulled out the Colt .45.
Something in him thought of Mokuba, and he knew that he was done for when that couldn't even make pulling the trigger less attractive. Not even Mokuba could save him now. It dismayed him, and made him even more certain in his decision, the most impulsive one of his life.
His mother smiled at him from her picture. It's okay, sweetie, he read in the smile, you can rest now. You can let it all go.
He knew he was just seeing what he wanted to see. If his mother's soul was out there, and now he knew it was, after all he had been through, she would probably hate him. That was okay. He hated himself. It was what he deserved.
He lifted the gun to his temple, hesitated, brought it near his mouth, then his forehead, and then back to his temple. No, too messy. He didn't want Mokuba's last image of his face to be splintered bone and pulpy flesh. He put it back to his mouth.
He felt squeamish. The thought of the cold metal on his tongue and teeth made him shiver. The taste would be like tinfoil, and the cold would make the nerves in his teeth throb.
My God, he thought, Mokuba won't stop you from blowing your brains out but the thought of your teeth being achy does. What is wrong with you?
Mokuba. He had to make sure Mokuba knew how much he loved him, even to the end. He grabbed the card around his neck. It would be held tight in his fist. The chain was tangled in his shirt buttons, and he had to look down to straighten it out. He picked up the gun again.
He realized he might not be found. He could be decomposing for months before somebody stumbled upon the secret study, if anyone ever did. He decided to write a note and put it on his bedroom door. He groped for the pen and paper with one hand, Colt clutched in the other.
His fingertips grazed Téa's photograph.
The drawing of Kisara had settled next to Téa's picture so it was leaning towards it. Téa appeared to be looking joyfully at Kisara, and the drawing was positioned so Kisara appeared to be leaning over Téa. Kisara looked solemnly at Kaiba.
Kaiba blinked.
He had put down the Colt without even registering the action.
How could you doubt that you are worthy? He heard a voice say. How could you doubt that I will always love you?
He felt something wrapping around him then, something warm and soft.
"You don't know," he whispered. "You don't know what I've done. You don't know what I've been through."
You can make it right, the sweet, soft song of a voice said. It will be all right. Do you trust me?
It would have been sacrilege to say otherwise.
Then stay alive for me, she said. Be happy for me. I am in your heart, and your joy is mine. I beg of you, do not take life away from us.
Kaiba cried again. This time he was quiet, and this time the tears did not sting.
"Forgive me," he whispered.
I have nothing to forgive.
"She does." Here his breath hitched.
Then let her forgive you.
He thought about this. He breathed deeply. There was something steely in the voice now. It was that hidden strength. She was going to keep protecting and guiding him.
Give her that choice.
He gazed at Téa's picture. Her face was doing something to him, something deep inside. It was the same feeling he felt when he first held her so tightly in the closet after he came, when he held her hand in the limo, and when he kissed her on the blimp. It was a curious, tender feeling; it almost hurt, but he couldn't stop cupping it in his mind.
He listened for the voice. It didn't speak, but he still felt that sense of warmth around him. Then it became quite clear what he had to do.
He looked at the gun. If this didn't work, it would always be there. He would try this one last thing.
The idea he had was a little seed, but if it bloomed, it would be so lovely.
If it withered, the gun would be waiting.