Warning: Self-injury
A/N: I make no apologies for lack of updates; I've decided that they're ineffectual and a waste of time.

Tainted – Part Eight

Bakura traced his finger lightly over the blemish.

It was a pale and white like most scar tissue. It was smooth and slightly raised, and it traveled up the length of a thigh in a smooth line. His fingers slipped sideways and traced the path of another scar not much distance from the other. This one swerved sideways rather than upwards, and if it were just a tad longer, it would have intersected with the first to make a warped sort of cross.

How ironic that might have been.

His hand moved over the skin and felt the grid of raised flesh beneath his palm, scars with a history that dated back to a time he'd already forgotten. One two three, twenty twenty-one. He counted absently as he followed their straight courses. He didn't keep track because he knew there were more than he could possible count lying around the smooth curves of Ryou's body.

Again his fingers jumped to one side and instead of soft scar tissue, he came in contact with a fresh scab.

He traced it as well and it was hard and the texture rough. Tilting his head down he gazed at it, and the deep burgundy against pale skin seemed strangely natural.

"I thought you said you'd stop," he chided softly, though it sounded more rueful than upset.

Ryou continued staring up at the ceiling and let his brother trace his fingers over his growing collection of scars. "I lied."

This somber, silent young man was simply a facet of Ryou's personality—and he felt privileged and a little sad that he was the only one his brother ever dropped his walls around.

Bakura sighed and shut his eyes, head still pillowed on his brother's chest. His head moved with each breath the other took, and he tried to concentrate on the jumping heartbeat in Ryou's chest. It palpitated and drummed, and he could feel it faintly against his cheek, almost as if it were trying to break through the bars of Ryou's ribs. It was strong and hectic and he loved to hear it throb into his ears and through his veins.

"Why?" he asked after a moment.

"Why did I lie?"

"No; why do you still do it."

"The same reason I gave you the last three times you asked me to stop." Ryou's voice was faint and he threaded his fingers through Bakura's hair absently. He was probably only tangling the long strands further, but he knew his brother wouldn't mind too much.

Bakura let the other play with his hair and continued listening to the fluttering pulse beneath his cheek. He wondered what it would sound like to hear the blood escape from its confines when Ryou cut himself. Did his brother hear it roaring in his ears, a wet, sensual sound? Did he hear his heart as it contracted and expelled its nectar?

Or was it simply just silence?

"Doesn't it hurt?" He couldn't imagine what cool metal felt like against flesh. He'd cut himself while cooking before, but he couldn't recall an exact feeling. All that came to mind was a sharp pain that made him bite his lip and hiss when water flowed into the cut to rinse away any dirt that lingered.

An eye opened and he looked at the smooth expanse of Ryou's stomach, tracing the faint marks there and wondering about it.

Was it difficult? Did the knife jam on the ribbons of muscle and refuse to budge, a cold obstruction? Or maybe it was simple. Perhaps the blade slid like silk and parted flesh and skin and life like butter, and the bloody marmalade was spread across the fleshy bread.

All this during the one second it took Ryou to draw in a breath and speak.

"That's the whole point."

Ryou was cold and his feet pressed against the curves of his brother's ankles in an attempt to steal his warmth. The older brother reached out and grabbed the covers, wrinkled and twisted from where they had been kicked aside, and pulled it over their bodies. Yet it was still not adequate and Ryou pushed closer, pressing every inch of exposed skin together.

The air in the room was stale and reeked of sex. They had opened the window earlier to let it air out for the night; perchance they would also change the sheets when they woke.

Bakura returned to his quiet contemplation of his brother's heartbeat and Ryou stared blankly up at the ceiling.

"It's not like I'm going to kill myself, 'Kura," Ryou offered when he felt as if the silence would swallow them whole.

"I know," was the soft reply, and Bakura tilted his head up to give him a small smile. "Do whatever, just as long as you're happy. I'm just worried about you."

Ryou tugged Bakura closer and nudged their noses together, arms looping around his brother. Their breaths became synchronized and when he inhaled, Bakura exhaled, and vice versa. Soon they were sharing and recycling breath, and for some reason, it felt all too intimate.

"I love you, aniki."

Their lips met briefly before Bakura pulled away, reaching over to turn off the light. Darkness swept over them and he settled down comfortably above the smaller body, head pillowing once more on his brother's chest. "I love you too, Ryou. Now go to sleep; it's late."

Bakura lay awake as he listened to Ryou's breathing even out, and soon it was a deep underlying current beneath the rhythm of his heart. He listened to its melody and wondered just what it would be like if it suddenly stopped.

-TBC-