By Definition Evil
Part 4
Who (pron.): The interrogative pronoun in the nominative case. 1. What or which person or persons. 2. That. Used as a relative pronoun to introduce a clause when the antecedent is a human. 3. The person or persons that; whoever.
Malik woke up feeling distinctly uneasy and physically sore. He'd dreamt about corridors, about darkness covering him and voices he could not quite recognize. He remembered warmth too, a comfort that somehow was and was not his own. Sitting up, it took him a moment to remember he was not in Egypt. No. Malik was in the United States, at his siblings' house.
"Are you up?" A short rap upon the door. "Malik, I'm coming in." The door creaked open and Isis stood before him. She was wearing a business suit—in sharp contrast to the linen robes Malik remembered—and carrying a bowl of oatmeal and some orange juice. He returned her smile shakily, trying to shrug off the lasting disquiet of his dream.
"Sister, it's been a while."
"It has."
Setting the food down upon the nightstand, Isis pulled Malik into a tight hug. The blonde was a bit surprised by this, not used to his sister being overly affectionate. However, it felt nice to be held in a familiar embrace. So accustomed was he to living on his own that Malik sometimes forgot how lonely he was.
"How is work?"
"Work?" Isis sat down beside him on the bed. "It's been going really well. We recently signed a deal with Kaiba Corp. for an investigation into the history of Duel Monsters. Seto's really interested."
Malik nodded. Rishid had said something to this effect the day before. "That's excellent. How is Kaiba, anyway?"
"Oh, he's…" The woman blushed, a vibrant tone that went surprisingly well with her normally placid features. "He's doing well, I suppose. Still a bit sore at Yugi and his friends, but, really, he's grown up quite a bit since Battle City."
We all have.
"Grown up?" Malik choked out a teasing laugh. "That's a funny way to talk about your boyfriend, you cradle robber!"
"Hey! I've only just turned thirty!"
Malik laughed and stood, stretching his arms up toward the ceiling. "Don't be mad, Isis. I'm only…what is it?"
Isis shook her head, snapping out of what, for a moment, had seemed the equivalent of a trance. "Nothing, I…it's just…I'd forgotten how youthful your laugh was. It's a really…a really clear sound."
"Oh." Malik stared uncomfortably at his hands. Had it really been so long since he'd last laughed like that? "Uh…thanks."
"Y-yes." Isis rose to her feet. "Well, I wish I could stay, but I have to be at the museum by nine. Your breakfast's there on the table. When Rishid wakes up…"
"Rishid?" Malik blinked. He hadn't thought about it before, but it was uncharacteristic for the older man to sleep in so late. "You mean he isn't up yet?"
Isis shook her head. "No. He's seemed a bit off lately. Perhaps more sleep will be good for him."
"Yeah, I noticed the other day. He seems preoccupied."
"Yes." Shifting uncomfortably in her patent leather heels, Isis flicked open her cell phone and blanched. "Oh! I'd better get going. I'll be home around six…and when Rishid wakes up will you remind him to bring me last years financial files? I have to…"
Isis talked herself down the stairs and out the door, leaving Malik swamped in a disorienting silence. Not knowing what else to do, he wandered into the bathroom—he was sharing it with Rishid—and stared at his jet-lagged features in the mirror. However, the blonde had little desire to fix up his appearance. He merely observed himself, contemplating the uniqueness, the singularity of who he was.
No one can take this from me. Not anymore.
On the bad nights, on the nights when Malik was lonely and regretful and depressed with the cards he'd been dealt, this thought alone revived him. Limbs, heartbeat, fingers, face—all were his. Most importantly, Malik's mind was his own. To love and to hate with as he chose. A mentality, whole and complete, something even his imposter could never steal.
Why? Because the darkness of Malik Ishtar was merely a byproduct of a sick boy's thoughts. It possessed neither the desire nor the humanity to comprehend what it was that made men different.
This is what Malik liked to tell himself.
"Good morning."
Rishid's reflection appeared in the mirror behind his own. He seemed to be nearly as exhausted.
"You didn't sleep well either?"
The larger man lifted his lip in an abortive attempt to smile. "Not really. Is Isis gone?"
Malik nodded. "She left a few minutes ago. Made some oatmeal, but I'm sure it's cold by now."
"That's alright. I'm not hungry."
"Me neither."
They stood in silence for a while, neither awkwardly nor in absolute comfort. Malik studied Rishid when he thought he wasn't looking. Physically, he hadn't changed much. Still tall. Still bald. Still possessing what Malik felt to be an unfairly masculine appearance. He was still silent as well, calm as ever. However, what had once been nature now seemed a convincing charade. There was an affectedness to Rishid's complacency. Malik remembered Isis' concern.
"Hey Rishid, are you…"
Turning as he spoke, the blonde met his brother's gaze. Green! The color screamed at him. It seemed fabulous somehow—empathetic, beautiful, warm. Malik was overwhelmed, so much so that it took him a minute to realize that these emotions were not his own. Green! Green! Green! The words resounded in Malik's head. They didn't belong to him.
Neither did the happiness, the pure, disturbed, pathetic happiness that now gnawed at him. But Malik knew it terribly well. Reason at the edge of madness. The glee of profound despair.
Him.
With all the power of his terror behind him, Malik wrenched his eyes away from those of the other man. Immediately, the voice in his head clicked off. Like a light switch. The OFF button on a remote control. He collapsed to the bathroom floor and retched in relief, stomach content working its way into the grouting.
"Malik! Are you al…"
"Don't touch me!" Said blonde raised an arm in defense against Rishid's altruistic advances. "Rishid…" The character of his voice slid from authoritarian into pleading. "…don't…I don't know…what was that?"
As if he didn't know already.
A large, gentle palm touched his cheek and Malik forced himself—reluctantly, fearfully—to once more look into his brother's eyes. On doing so, the voice did not return. However, the stormy, brooding green of Rishid's irises left something unsettled in his stomach.
No words defined the terror Rishid felt when his sibling and former master collapsed vomiting to the bathroom floor. For a moment his mind went into shock, reverted upon itself. He was not aware of the scene before him, only that the shower curtain was uneven, that there were dead insects trapped in the inverted dome of the overhead light, thatsomewhere in the apartment a phone—destined to go unanswered—was ringing.
Then his focus came surging back to Malik, and he knelt down beside him. The blonde's broken sentences alarmed him. So did his anger and subsequent panic. Rishid hadn't seen him this frenzied since…since he was a sixteen year-old child under the possession of revenge.
But what brought such a fit on now? Did it have to do with a suddenly recovered memory? Marik? Or worse, Marik and himself? Had Rishid's interaction with Malik's darkness somehow brought this upon them? He felt he might throw up himself.
Slowly Malik's breathing steadied. When he seemed vaguely within the limits of consolation, Rishid helped him into the kitchen for a glass of water. He didn't ask questions, wanting to know the answers no more than the blonde wanted to tell them.
He never does, never wants to tell anyone anything.
Malik's dishonesty—with others but mostly with himself—had on a subconscious level always bothered Rishid. It wasn't until actually admitting it to himself that he realized how much so.
"Rishid…" Malik grabbed his hand, twisting the gold ring he wore upon his thumb. "You'll never leave me, will you? Even…even if I…"
"No." Said man squeezed the other's palm in comfort. "I won't, Master Malik. You know that."
The blonde sighed and leaned against his shoulder, at peace if only for the moment. Rishid sat with him in silence, wrestling down his misgivings in favor of loyalty, of love. Malik was flawed, but so was every other creature on the planet. Even those not nearly so tortured as the young Egyptian.
But in the back of his mind, the darkness' words were ringing. Does he love you back?
With a sigh, Ryou dropped his phone back onto the nightstand. He isn't picking up. Not that Ryou knew what he'd say to Malik if he did. He just…just wanted to hear the Egyptian's voice…for stupid reasons. He was simply lonely.
Still pining over him, I see.
Bakura's face sneered at him in the reflection of the darkened window. The spirit's lack of physicality did little to tarnish the malevolence of his expression.
"I guess I am." Ryou stood up and shut the drapes. "I don't have many friends. You know that."
You call this infatuation friendship?
Ryou squared his shoulders against the other's frostiness. "Of course. What do you think I should call it?"
Bakura did not reply but instead sent his invisible fingers ghosting up Ryou's spine. The white-haired man twitched a little. "Bakura, why…"
Because I want to.
And he did. And there was nothing Ryou could—or would—do about it. There was no logic in trying to evade a ghost, and no amount of wishing could block out how good it felt to be held by one who almost understood him. So Ryou leaned back on the couch and let the spirit caress him.
Despite his malignancy, Bakura could be gentle. His hands were large, slender and firm but perceptive enough to make Ryou wriggle and cry out. They knew where to tease him and at what point they should go in for the kill.
Overwhelmed by the spirit's fingers snaking beneath his waistband, Ryou allowed his eyes to fall shut. Only in the absence of visual reality could he see Bakura clearly. He stood out clearly in the sightless darkness, ruddy eyes glaring into Ryou's with an intensity that was stifling.
It was at moments like this that Ryou feared the spirit. However, they were also when he felt for him the most pity. The insatiability of his carnality, the desperation of it. Just manifestations of Bakura's loneliness, so ancient and deep-seated Bakura himself could not define it.
"Ba…kura…" Ryou moaned as the spirit began to pull off his clothes, ashamed and excited by the unflinching attention of his stare. Bakura bit the pale expanses of his chest, the more intimate regions of his inner thighs. He fingered Ryou's entrance with his middle finger, shoving the digit deep inside.
Remember Ryou… His eyes didn't leave the lighter's face. Remember what this feels like. Am I as good as Malik?
"…better…" And it was true. Bakura had more experience. He knew Ryou's body more intimately than anyone. However, what the spirit did not know was that there was more to a relationship than physical compatibility. "…will you…Kura…please do it…"
Satisfied with Ryou's pleas and the assurance of his ignorance, Bakura positioned is erection between the mortal's legs. He moaned as he forced himself into the younger's tightness, overcome with sensation but refusing to close his eyes. Ryou had learned ages ago that Bakura liked to watch faces, his enemies' and lovers' alike. He got off on expressions, though—in Ryou's opinion—his reasons probably ran much deeper than arousal.
Ryou cried out sharply as the spirit pulled out and began to force his way back inside him. Bakura knew his body too well. The rhythm he set was flawless. So was his aim. Ryou's prostate felt almost punished when he was done with him. The spirit's grunts as he thrust in and out were comforting. Bakura's noises hinted at emotion, at a humanity clinging after even 3000 years of living death.
Can Malik make you feel like this? Can he fuck you like I can? Can he lo...
"…Kura…don't…" Ryou shushed him with a kiss, soft lips cutting off the other's manic tirade. "…I promised not to leave you…remember…"
Bakura did not respond to this. However, his features calmed, eyes taking on a less unsettling brightness. Ryou often had this soothing effect on him. Choosing his words correctly, he could render the spirit almost respectable, at least in private.
"…uh…I-I think…" Lights flashed before Ryou's eyes. His body jerked and he was dimly aware of Bakura's seed spilling into him. Sex with Bakura was often like this. Quick but satisfying. Accelerating rapidly into a startling crescendo.
Satiated, Ryou opened his eyes. Bakura's form vanished along with darkness. He was alone in the living room now, clothed, still able to feel Bakura's member softening inside him.
I have to leave for a while, Ryou, but don't forget. I am your master.
"I know." Ryou sighed and shook his head. Master? Lately, he'd been starting to wonder.
Good Mood. This was not a term Marik would have ever imagined could apply to him. It seemed such a meaningless phrase, too mundane to apply to a creature such as himself. However, to Marik the mundane was remarkable. Something to be examined, reveled in.
Because it was true. He was in a Good Mood. Why? Because his plan was taking shape. Because Rishid had talked to him. Because for once in his life he did not feel so cripplingly alone.
Malik Ishtar is whomever Rishid loves.
As long as he remembered this, Marik was capable of hope. The pain, the endlessness and shadows were only temporary. Existence loomed before him, tantalized him, teased him by remaining just out of reach. But it was there at least, and Marik wanted it.
He remembered how Rishid had touched him, how the warmth of his body had chased away the shadows and the pain. When he left—suddenly, vanishing like a candle's flame in sunlight—Marik had gasped as if submersed without warning into frigid water. Coldness retook him, made his body shake and the hair on his limbs rise up in goose bumps. The usual.
But the memory of warmth remained and Marik—skilled in the art of mind games—could almost trick himself into believing it still existed. And though this warmth was but a memory, it wrapped itself around him and held off the shadows as Rishid's arms had done.
This knowledge made the spirit blush for reasons he did not understand.
Even now, hours later, the warmth was still inside him. He sat alone in the darkness, hands wandering over the body he had never really marveled at before. He had always thought of it as a sort of sham, a false vessel useful only for distinguishing himself from the surrounding soullessness.
Which, in retrospect, was certainly not unimportant.
His body's physicality startled him. So did its nakedness. The blonde had never before felt self-conscious about his lack of clothing. Self-consciousness in itself was a new concept entirely. But he felt it now, an embarrassment of his uncovered skin, of the way it tightened at his hips and grew a little darker between his thighs. Marik even took notice of his thinness. Ribs jutting out, elbows knobby, spine protruding and unattractive.
Ugliness was yet another concept new to him.
And much to his chagrin, Marik understood perfectly that it had something to do with Rishid. However, after this revelation, his comprehension of the matter fizzled. Why? This was both the question that mattered most and the question Marik was most incapable of answering. Leaning back, the blonde gazed into the fathoms of emptiness above him.
"Love."
There had been a time when Marik thought he understood this cruel yet most radiant emotion. Love and hatred are synonymous. At least, this is what he used to believe. However, Marik's view of love was changing.Was love the maliciousness with which Bakura had forced himself upon him? Or maybe it was the calm, lusterless green of Rishid's eyes. Impossible. Both explanations seemed far too simple.
The blonde sighed. The concept of love confused him, angered him as did all things he could not comprehend. Maybe this was the real reason he was oft so full of hate; Marik's list of things he could not grasp was constantly growing, leaving him behind in frustrated unawareness.
"Hate is love." How he wished it were so straightforward! For if hate were love, Marik would already have the upper hand in winning over—dare he say, seducing—Rishid. If nothing else, the blonde understood hatred. He understood it as the small child understands his reflection in a mirror, inherently.
How funny, he thought, to know what I am without comprehending who.
Who? The word echoed, if only in his conscious thoughts. Who? Whowhowhowhowhowho are you?
He gave it a shot.
"I am Malik and I am not Malik.
I am hatred and I am anger.
I am sorrow.
I am vengeance.
I am loss.
Most of all, I am hope…or hopelessness. I'm not quite sure."
Not sure, eh? If you're not sure who you are, then who would you like to be?
This was an easy one.
"Malik Ishtar."
Malik Ishtar? You're not hope! You're pure foolishness!
At the end of Battle City Rishid had said something about hope. However, facing imminent nonexistence, Marik had been too afraid and too in pain to listen. He would have to ask him though…the next time he came back.
"More lively than last time we met, I see."
Bakura's voice preceded him, husky and cold but evoking no more fear in Marik than it had during their previous meeting. He had decided long ago that there was something entirely too total about the pale-haired spirit's calculating immorality. No one was that apathetically evil Evil in essence was emotion unrestricted. Therefore, Marik concluded, a degree of Bakura's wickedness must be artificial.
"Lively? Watch it. You're contradicting yourself."
The spirit's leer took on a subtle edge of annoyance. "How so?"
"You said before that I was soulless." Marik laughed. "How is it that the soulless live?"
"They don't." Bakura's sneer was gone, replaced with a look much more ugly. "They rot away in darkness, having learned nothing about themselves or true existence."
Nothing…It was Marik's turn to frown. He did not believe this. However, he didn't dispute it either. Instead the blonde fell mute and waited to see what the other spirit had lurking up his sleeve.
Bakura approached slowly, pale, naked body a stark contrast to Marik's bronzed one. Reaching out, he traced one of the many jagged scratches running along Marik's shoulder blades and ribcage.
"What are these from?"
Marik didn't answer.
"They're from your fingernails, aren't they? Tearing at yourself when the darkness becomes something past endurance."
Marik kept his jaw clenched tight. Bakura could never know—would never know—the true extent of his weakness. The way he cried and pled when the Shadows came for him. The way he laughed brokenly against the pain, begged secretly for death…again and again and again....
Only one man knew his failing, had seen Marik at his most vulnerable and most human. But Rishid was not a man of exploitation, which—for Marik's sake at least—was rather beneficial.
"I must admit, though." Bakura began to circle him, but Marik refused to be taken by his predatory advances. "You're refusal to die quietly is really quite amusing."
"Amusing?" The blonde spoke in a sort of rasping whisper. "That's funny, because the only thing I find amusing about our situation is you, Bakura. Your big talk, your pretensions, the fact that I came closer to accomplishing in a single day of freedom what you could not clench in 3000 years of calculation."
These words, and the balance of power shifted. Marik burned. Bakura's wickedness seemed somehow diminished…but only for an instant. Seconds later, his hand flew out and the blonde was sent sprawling backward.
Damn. He was still too weak.
"Idiot!" Grasping him by the shoulders, Bakura hauled the blonde up until he hung at eye level. "Compared to me, you're nothing but a child!" He struck him again, hard on the side of the head. There were no mind games this time, none of the magic or strategy that came with playing cards. Bakura's attack was one of sheer violence, spontaneous, devoid of planning. The punches hurt less than Marik expected, and he realized with a peculiar amazement that, despite all the agony he had suffered during his short existence, he had never been physically struck before.
The attack did not last long. Bit by bit Bakura reigned in his emotions. He stopped hitting Marik but continued to stand close to him, hot breath scalding on his face.
"I'm going to destroy you, Marik. Again and again until you learn your place. Creatures like you…demanding recognition, desiring so completely to be human…it pisses me off!"
"Why?"
At this, Bakura sputtered, choked on his rage and for a moment betrayed his complete inability to answer this question.
Marik laughed. "You're jealous, aren't you, Bakura? Because I reach out for what I desire, grasp for it without hesitation. Stupidly, maybe, but without regret. I don't need plans! I don't need deception or cheating! That's what makes us different. You may be older, wiser, more patient…but I…"
"SHUT UP!" In an instant of incredible violence, Bakura brought his knee up and with exceptional force drove it between Marik's legs. At the same time, he jerked on the blonde's right arm, wrenching his shoulder completely from its socket. "WITHOUT REGRET?! WITHOUT DECEPTION?! YOU FUCKING IDIOT! YOU FOOL! LIFE IS REGRET! LIFE IS DECEPTION! DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND THIS?!"
Lost in the spirit's rant and his own excruciating agony, Marik collapsed and stared up at Bakura in appreciative and fearful astonishment. He would have never thought Bakura capable of such pure, unguarded anger.
"…you don't understand…how could you?" Bakura was smiling down on him, not mockingly or with beneficence but in a way that Marik couldn't quite describe. Something between anguish and disappointment. "…how could you understand anything about desire, anything about wisdom or patience or age or…or regret? These are things dreamt up by humans, felt by humans…but not by you."
Leaning over him, Bakura began to touch him, stroking Marik's hair, hands, hips and sides. His own hands were so gentle, so soothing. They did not match the tortured expression on his face.
"You're right about one thing, Marik. I am jealous of you. Jealous of your spontaneity, your honesty, your complete lack of human inhibitions and regret. How does that make you feel, little Marik? Knowing that the only thing I want from you is the inhumanity you wish you didn't have?"
The blonde screamed as Bakura touched his injured shoulder, shoved his fingers between the socket and disjointed humerus. The area burned nearly as badly as the paler's words, blistering his conscious with their unendurable factuality. Bakura was right. He wasn't human. He couldn't be. Who was Marik to think he could be Malik? To think he could make Rishid love him? F-fuck. He didn't even know what loving someone meant!
"S-STOP IT! STOP! THAT FUCKING HURTS!" He thrashed, but Bakura's grip on Marik's shoulder was relentless. "B-BAKURA! BAKURA PLEASE! PLEASE STOP! OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD OH G…"
He was crying. They both were. So similar. So different. One longed for humanity, the other for lack thereof. Tears spilled from evil-clouded eyes, silent and hot and with an overwhelming sincerity that only the tears of demons can possess. No one innocent, no one decent or good, may even come close to understanding such an all-consuming grief. The dazzling, bleeding sorrow that lurks beneath cruelty and madness.
"…st…s-stop…" Marik's tear-filled eyes rolled back into his head, body convulsing of its own accord. "…n-no…no, don't…"
"…quiet…be quiet…" Hand still digging into the other's injured shoulder, Bakura used his knee to nudge apart his thighs. He stared despairingly at Marik's flaccid member, realizing his own was even softer. "I'm going to…have to…"
Utilizing his free hand and thoughts of Ryou, Bakura forced his torpid arousal to attention. He then tried to shove it into Marik's entrance, cursing when it wouldn't fit. "Damnit…too fucking dry…suck these…"
The blonde refused to suck on Bakura's fingers, preferring instead to snap at them with his teeth. Bakura didn't even flinch. Instead, he used his own blood for lubricant, forcing his mangled fingers into Marik's entrance. The blonde fought back sluggishly but was too preoccupied with the burning in his shoulder to pay much attention to this new, more embarrassing agony.
On the second try, the paler spirit managed to enter. Shifting both hands to Marik's hips, he gritted his teeth against the friction and concentrated on forcing his half-erect cock in and out of the man beneath him. He tried to look at Marik's face but couldn't, vision obscured by the tears still spilling down his cheeks. Even with both arms free, the blonde barely struggled. He just lay back and took it, too exhausted, to emotionally drained to bother with resistance.""C-come on Marik…" Bakura snarled at him through his tears. "What's wrong with you? Don't you like it? Don't you appreciate my love?"
Marik shook his head, shook his whole body. His entire frame was trembling and he did not know why. Bakura was right, though. Not even human enough to enjoy sex, how could he possibly grasp the finer points of love?
With what had to be a colossal effort, Bakura forced himself to climax. He pulled out of Marik with a sigh of relief and stared exhausted at the bloodied cum leaking from between his thighs.
"Understand…" His voice was more dismal than it was cruel. "…you are next to nothing. And soon you will be nothing. All you're good for is fading away. You're not even human enough to die properly."
"And you're too human to ever fade, and as sure as you are human, you will die. That bothers you, doesn't it?"
Bakura did not reply, but sat in silence beside the blonde for a long time. Tears dried. So did blood. The evil left behind was too despairing to be dangerous. Two creatures, one tormented by life, the other by mere existence. Sitting naked in the darkness. All they could do was tear at each other, chip off pieces until they were both broken beyond repair.
Even the shadows, always hungry for something to hold onto, feared to touch them now. Instead, they slunk just out of reach, lapping up what tainted tears remained shimmering in the darkness.
-TOT (The last part of this chapter pretty much consumed three hours of my Sunday afternoon. I love writing interaction between Marik and Bakura. They're such despairing characters, striving for what, by nature, they cannot have. All they know is destruction, not possessing the powers necessary to gain happiness. They cause their own suffering but are unable to stop themselves.
I actually got pretty emotional writing this. The end of this chapter sort of made me sad. I think everyone knows what it's like to feel unhappy and not know what to do about it. But life is good, and we carry on. Am I right? Anyway, please tell me what you think about this chapter.
All comments are appreciated!)