In memory of Gianni Versace, and tribute to many more. Sorry I messed it up.
For Jonouchi Katsuya (my friend, not the character) who requested this pairing. I didn't do quite what you wanted with it (and I'll have to squeeze Kaiba and the octopus into the next story) so again, sorry I messed up. Sorry too to Jonouchi Katsuya the character, whose Nick-Kamen-in-the-laundrette scene languishes on the cutting-room floor.
Warnings for just about everything it's possible to warn for: multiple character deaths, drug references, violence, emotional / domestic abuse, mature themes, swearing, suicide, mental illness and Bakura's eating habits. To the contest readers: I'm sorry yet again.
Before I can find anything else to apologise for, I present to you...
Dirty Laundry, or Heirs and Graces
Yako Tenma softly pencil-shaded in the scalloped folds of the dress he was sketching. It was dull, dead on the page. The Rebirth of Venus collection was supposed to exemplify modern femininity, but all Yako's designs were lacking in power and passion and – horror of horrors – originality. They weren't simply referencing the elegant lines of Pegasus's early creations, they were adopting them watered-down and wholesale.
Yako was better than this.
Yako used to be better than this.
"Before me stand two exceptionally gifted designers." Pegasus maintained a solemn expression and arched his visible eyebrow. "You have beaten ten other talented youngsters to reach the finals, for the chance to win $100,000 and join me at Idolatrous Illusions. The winner will design a dress for my next collection, which will be showcased at New York Fashion Week."
Yako was sick to his stomach, but he wouldn't let that show in front of the cameras (let alone Pegasus). He lifted his chin proudly, daring Pegasus to draw out these dramatic pauses even longer.
"I will also personally train the winner in the machinations of the industry, grooming him to succeed me as the head of Idolatrous Illusions."
Yako's eyes flicked to the side jealously as Pegasus stepped forward and clasped his twin's hands. "Gekko, you came into this competition the most confident, and competent, of all my potential heirs. Every week you've turned in perfect pieces that glide graciously down the runway. I could have hired you from day one. But does perfection mean that you have no room to grow?"
Pegasus moved on, now taking Yako's hands in his. "Yako, you started this journey in your brother's shadow. You've made mistakes, glorious, wonderful, chaotic mistakes – the less said about your hot pink harlequin, the better. But you've also won design of the week several times for moments of breathtaking genius."
Pegasus stepped back, picking up a leather portfolio. Gekko gave Yako a nervous smile. Yako didn't respond, instead fixing his eyes on Pegasus. "So who is the winner of Runway Heirs? The boy with so much potential, or the boy who's already on top?" Yako clenched his fists and tried to stop his heart from pounding a mile a minute.
"My Runway Heir is… Gekko Tenma!"
Gekko had beaten him. Again. It just kept happening. Stunned, Yako could only stand there as Gekko attacked him with an enthusiastic hug. He watched as Pegasus passed Gekko a flute of champagne and the two shared a congratulatory toast. Pegasus glanced over at Yako, and excused himself politely, leaving Gekko to talk with Crocketts.
"You're just not ready yet, Yako." Pegasus put a comforting hand on Yako's shoulder. "In a few years, maybe."
Yako's face twisted into a rictus grin. "Thank you for giving me the opportunity." Another opportunity wasted, stolen from him by someone with identical genes and only a few minutes on him in age and experience.
"Keep in touch." Pegasus guided Yako firmly towards the exit, and the walk of shame that ten hopefuls had already taken. Yako had not truly believed he'd be joining them.
"Package for you," Gekko poked his head around the door to Yako's studio, smiling when he spotted his brother hard at work. "Might be those cowries you wanted."
Yako stretched and stood up, leaning against the table he had been working at. "Just put it over there, thanks."
Gekko obliged and set the package down on a clear table before giving a concerned look at the puffy circles around his brother's eyes. "Are you okay, Yako? You look drained."
"I'm fine," Yako sighed, avoiding his brother's gaze.
"Sure," Gekko nodded slowly. "Well, can I see what you're working on?"
"Knock yourself out," Yako moved out of the way and folded his arms.
Gekko picked up the sketch pad and looked at Yako's work appraisingly. "This is…"
"Not good enough, I know." Yako sniffed.
Gekko gave an admonishing scowl. "Not you enough. If I wanted another collection like last year's, I'd have designed it myself."
"So why did you hire me then, if you're so great by yourself?"
"Oh I don't know, maybe I thought your recent work was showing some promise until you threw that bitch-fit that got you blacklisted from every major event? I'm taking a huge risk here, Yako, and if you let me down you will never work in this industry again." Gekko dropped the sketch pad, insulted, and prodded a finger to his brother's chest. "And that's not a threat, it's just the facts."
Yako sulked. Gekko gave a dismissive wave. "Take a break, get a coffee or something. I'll come back later."
"Oh joy." Yako rolled his eyes as Gekko left. His gaze settled on the table by the door, and the package atop it. Opening that would waste a few minutes.
The parcel was wrapped in plain brown paper, and not labelled with a sender's address. Probably not the shells then, Yako thought as he ripped in to the packaging. The small box was filled with foam pellets, covering something that felt roughly spherical between Yako's fingers. He lifted it out, and it shone golden in the bright lights of the studio.
Yako's face felt suddenly hot and there was a rushing sound in his ears. "Gekko!" he shouted, the name trailing off into a strangled cry as his knees buckled and he dropped the object.
Gekko arrived just in time to keep his brother from falling to the floor, and manoeuvred him into a nearby chair. "What is it?" he asked urgently, gripping Yako's shoulders. Yako stared wide-eyed in the direction of the opened package, his breathing fast and shallow. "Just put your head between your knees and try to breathe deeply, okay?" Gekko gave Yako's shoulder a brief rub and turned to the mess of foam nuggets.
The eye was lying there where Yako had dropped it back into the box, staring unblinkingly up at Gekko. "Pegasus's…" No wonder Yako was reacting so badly, Gekko thought. He had idolised Pegasus, and the designer's murder had led to Yako's previous difficulties. "I'm calling the cops, Yako. Stay there, I'll be right back."
Gekko took the box with him when he left, leaving only a few foam pellets as evidence of its presence. Yako stared at them, eyes unfocused, while his mind raced. He had thought he had put Pegasus' loss behind him. But the police never had caught his killer, and now here he was, seemingly taunting Yako…
Yako stood, kicked the chair out from underneath him, and half-ran, half-fell to his work table. The panic was still rising inside and he needed to do something to work it out. He tore up the limp sketch that occupied the top sheet of the sketch pad so listlessly, and attacked the next sheet viciously with his pencil. For something to be reborn, it first had to die. With lines so sharp they tore into the paper Yako deconstructed the iconic lines of Pegasus' exquisite tailoring, vandalising seams and pulling tortured angles from the imagined fabric. The garment seemed to scream with distress on the page.
Yako flipped the page and carried on his frenzied pencil scratching.
When the cops hadn't been able to find Pegasus' killer, Yako had taken matters into his own hands. He'd needed someone, anyone, to blame. So when Crocketts had told him about Pegasus' affair with the model Yasmin Muto which had left the designer bereft of inspiration and on the verge of bankruptcy, Yako had made sure to give Yasmin's agency a call.
Yasmin wouldn't accept trade in payment and her fee was far out of Yako's usual reach, but every penny of his remortgage, every night without food or heating spent working stitches and notions with numb fingers, would be worth it. He would destroy her as she had destroyed Pegasus, humiliate her publicly.
Yako took a peek through the curtain. The seats of the aquarium were nearly full of paying guests, not bad for an independent show by a little-known designer. There were a few prominent journalists in the front row, including the one from Vogue who had given him a featurette under the title "Savage Genius" a few months ago. They would all be writing about the fall of Yasmin Muto after tonight. Yako smiled to himself and rushed backstage to direct the models.
In the aquarium, the lights dimmed as a disembodied voice announced the start of the show. "Ladies and gentlemen, both and neither, Yako Tenma presents… The Wicked Avatar!" A low rumble accompanied the rise of a holographic sphere from the darkened depths of the tank. A sphere so impossibly black that there was no physical way it could be emitting that uneasy white light. As it rose, it started to spin, the rumble becoming a hum as the light grew to illuminate the runway.
The runway was suspended three feet above the tank, the fin of a hungry tiger shark circling in the waters below. The models would follow a teardrop shape while moving walkways of various speeds gave the illusion of different grades of motion. Gouts of flame licked out at unpredictable times at the various posing spots.
Backstage, the models were understandably apprehensive, but most couldn't afford to pass up the work. Yasmin was opening the show. Yako pulled the barb wire choker tight, too tight, around her neck – and oh how he relished the little red pricks of raised flesh where the prongs bit into her perfect skin – and pushed her out on to the catwalk with little regard for her skyscraper heels.
He hadn't even messed up her timing so far. She made it round the runway, pausing for the camera flashes without the flames singeing her exotically backcombed hair, never fazed by the holographic ghosts that floated along the runway in the opposite direction.
There were only thirty seconds between clothes changes for each model. Yako concentrated on Yasmin, leaving his frantic assistants to dress the other girls. When Yasmin accidentally-on-purpose stood on his fingers while he was changing her shoes, he calmly straightened up and punched her in the face before beckoning a make-up artist over to disguise the reddening skin around Yasmin's cheekbone. "You're fat, bitch," he hissed in her ear as he padlocked the rigid steel corset shut at her slim waist. "You need to diet and lose some inches off those hips."
That got a response in the form of an indignant scowl and parted painted lips. Yako pushed the model out on to the catwalk before she could speak, cursing and clutching his throbbing fingers. The corset restrained her previous fierce strut to a smooth glide, but she made another confident round of the catwalk before strolling right back behind the curtain to slap Yako hard.
"She hit me, did you see that?" Yako screamed at his crew. Most chose to concentrate intently on their current task, only a few looking up at the commotion. "You're mine, whore. I own you for the duration of this show." His fingers were still smarting from being crushed underfoot, and he swore repeatedly at the tricky padlock before it gave up and opened. Seeing Yako's trouble one of his assistants came over to help, but he pushed her away, ripping the couture clothes from Yasmin's body. Before allowing her to dress in her next outfit, Yako mashed his lips and teeth against Yasmin's in a brutal mockery of a kiss. "This is all for Pegasus, you dumb slut."
"Yasmin!" shouted someone, urgently. "Yasmin, you're up!"
"She's not ready," shouted Yako, gripping Yasmin's chin tight to force her to face him. "Send Keisha out." Again an assistant tried to make up for lost time by cramming Yasmin's arms into a cropped jacket, the shoulder pads of which angled up and out past her ears. Yako shoved the assistant away, returning to dressing Yasmin himself.
"You hounded Pegasus to death and I will crush you." The stilettoes he jammed on Yasmin's feet were two sizes too small.
"I didn't kill him!" Yasmin protested, pulling up a clingy skirt.
"Yes you did," Yako's eyes lowered, for just a moment, before he turned to the accessories for the outfit. "There's no way someone as strong as Pegasus could have died unless he wanted to. Because of you, he voluntarily accepted death. It doesn't matter now who actually performed the deed."
"Even so," said Yasmin coolly, "my relationship with Pegasus was as two consenting adults. You have no part in that. Stop this now, and I won't take this further."
"That's no longer possible." Yako pulled Yasmin's arms behind her and bound her wrists with latex tape, running a criss-cross pattern up her arms and across the open chest of the jacket.
"Yasmin!" The call came again.
"Coming!" Yasmin hobbled away from Yako, using all her model training to not let the pain show in her face.
She was slower on this last walk, hindered by the restrictive clothing, and Yako watched in satisfaction as a flame caught her by surprise at a posing spot. She toppled and fell, landing badly on the catwalk, to the accompaniment of gasps and a few laughs from the audience. Between the lofty heels and her tied hands, Yasmin took too long to push herself awkwardly to her feet. The next girl had nearly caught her up. Some models would have tried to score points here, but Yvie gave her a gentle hand and paused at the posing spot to give Yasmin time to move on.
Yasmin recovered and made the rest of the walk but the incident had left her with no time to remove the tape from her wrists before the finale. She followed the other models as they fanned out along the catwalk and applauded Yako's smiling appearance. As he reached her, he took hold of her arm, guiding her to the central part. The audience's cheers grew, whether in sympathy or praise for Yasmin's professionalism she could not guess.
Yako raised his arms wide to thank the audience. Yasmin felt his hand between her shoulder blades. "What –"
Yako pushed, and Yasmin Muto fell to the aquarium tank below, the shock causing her to gulp a lungful of water. She sank, struggling against her bound wrists and waterlogged, impractical clothes. The cries from the other models as the tiger shark's fin approached were muffled underwater.
There was a second splash, the waters churning near Yasmin as Yako took the plunge. Yasmin felt arms around her, bearing her up until she broke the surface and spluttered for air. "If I'd let it end that way, I would have regretted it," muttered Yako as he dragged her to the side of the tank to be lifted out. That done, he swam back into the centre of the tank and let himself sink.
After the parcel, the letters started arriving at the rate of about one a week. The cops had told the Tenmas to let them know if they had any further contact with the sender of the parcel, but Yako soon became adept at intercepting the mail before it reached Gekko. The notes were a lifeline to Pegasus and they belonged to Yako.
When he was alone, Yako would unlock the drawer in his studio and carefully remove a letter from its unmarked envelope to reread. One might be a snide compliment about Pegasus's rough treatment of a model who stepped out of line. Another would go into graphic detail about the delicate procedure of removing an eye from a living person with fingers slick with their bodily fluids. The Pegasus that Yako remembered breathed again through these notes: both the vital, ruthless, ambitious creative icon he had adored, and the defeated dog who had lain down to accept his own death.
The act of remembering nearly always forced Yako's hand towards the sketch pad to draw out the pain, but this time he was looking for something other than inspiration. The author of the notes had been close to Pegasus, of that Yako was sure. There was a yawning pit growing in Yako's very soul and the notes were no longer enough. He had to meet Pegasus' killer.
Yako swept his table clear and spread out the notes. He tried putting them in rough chronological order. It would be much easier with Gekko's co-operation, but Gekko wouldn't want Yako to do this: he'd say his brother was too fragile and probably helpfully book him an appointment at the clinic. So Yako managed as best he could, piecing together the notes with memories of Gekko's anecdotes of working for Pegasus which Yako had voraciously and vicariously devoured.
That done, and with ready access to both the internet and Idolatrous Illusions' employee intranet, Yako started searching for the events described to put names to the celebrities, workers and sundry fashion creatures detailed in the notes. Then all he had to do was cross-reference to people who had been working for, or with, Idolatrous Illusions during those periods.
It was shockingly easy, when you put a truly dedicated mind to the task, Yako thought as he brought up the ex-employee's picture. Bakura Ryo, unpaid intern, described as conscientious, polite and quiet. It was always the quiet ones, sneered Yako. No doubt the man's neighbour would have been suitably surprised for the media if the cops had ever done their jobs. A bit more snooping around the intranet dug up references to disciplinary action shortly before Bakura left the company. Whatever for had been locked behind the HR firewall, as were Bakura's contact details.
That was no problem for Yako. Anyone who wanted to break into the fashion industry couldn't make themselves hard to contact, networking was a must. It only took a quick Google to pull up a cell number and email address.
They met first in a coffee shop. "You don't look anything like your picture," said Yako, to start. Bakura's eyes seemed narrower, more intelligent or perhaps world-weary.
Bakura laughed at that, full-throated with his head thrown back. When he had finished, he rested his chin on clasped hands, his elbows guarding a tall Americano, and smiled like a cat smelling something foul. "Working for Pegasus does that to a man."
"Is that why?" Yako drummed the fingers of one hand on the table.
"Not in the slightest." Bakura paused, looking around to make sure their conversation wasn't being eavesdropped upon. "I admired Pegasus. He had a drive I thought unstoppable. But then you-know-who came along."
"Yasmin."
"Pegasus was a broken man. I simply put him out of his misery. It was the kindest thing anyone could have done."
Yako took a long swig of his chai latte, his shaking hand making the mug rattle when he put it down. "He could have been fixed."
"Like you were fixed? Neutered?" Bakura scoffed. "Please. I'm a fan of your work, I really am, that's why I got in touch. We creative types, we thrive on excess. We overdose on cocaine, we get addicted to sex, we have manic highs and depressive lows and we create the greatest art the world has ever seen. Take away the extremes and you take away that which defines our inspiration. I will not stand by and see your talent sold to Walmart."
"Are you trying to encourage me or threaten me?"
"Yes." Bakura's smile widened.
The second time was at a steakhouse. Bakura demanded that Yako pay, and he wouldn't talk until he'd wolfed down the blue-rare meat. Yako simply watched, toying with his fries.
"Creation must always be balanced by destruction," Bakura eventually began, "don't you agree?" He licked a trickle of bloody spittle from the corner of his mouth.
Yako opened his mouth to answer, but Bakura simply continued. He seemed to like the sound of his own voice.
"All your best work on Runway Heirs was during periods of great conflict. The pattern was easy to see. And your work at the Wicked Avatar show was breathtaking. Why did you end it there? Did Yasmin get to you, as she did Pegasus? You should be head designer for Idolatrous Illusions, not that pedestrian copycat Gekko. Let him be your pattern cutter."
"Pegasus chose Gekko over me." Yako managed to interject.
"Because you weren't consistent. But I've worked out what he couldn't." Bakura helped himself to Yako's uneaten food, continuing to talk through mouthfuls of steak and fries. "Keep me around, and I promise life will never be uninteresting again."
Bakura became an uneasy fixture in Yako's life. He'd show up at unpredictable times and take pleasure in derailing every aspect of his existence. With Bakura the only constant, it wasn't long before their relationship became violently physical. The morning after one of their scenes, sore, bruised or cut, Yako would get up hours before the alarm to fervently work on his sketches. It was undeniably productive.
"There's some really powerful ideas in here, Yako," said Gekko, impressed. The three of them were in Yako's studio, Yako at his table, Bakura leaning against it, and Gekko flipping through the designs Yako had picked for the potential Rebirth of Venus collection. "What was your inspiration? Gaga?"
"That derivative clown?" Bakura snorted.
"And you are?" Gekko looked at Bakura coldly.
"Meet the muse," Bakura said expansively, like he was granting a special favour by speaking to Gekko.
"Oh, so you're the one who's making it so hard for me to get hold of my brother."
"I can get hold of him for you, if you'd like." Bakura winked.
"No need." Yako cut in, giving both a scathing look. "Bakura, can you please get out? I need to go through these with Gekko."
"As you wish." Bakura mock-bowed as he left.
Gekko looked after Bakura with a frown. "I don't approve of the company you're keeping, Yako."
"You're just jealous because my designs are better than yours." Yako looked smug.
"Whatever." Gekko sighed. "Now can we please get to work?"
"You did what?" Yako fumed, pushing Bakura back against the wall. Bakura didn't even raise his hands.
"Well he looks just like you, how was I to know the difference?"
"Oh, you knew alright." Yako prodded and shoved, wondering why Bakura wasn't fighting back.
"Maybe I did." Bakura leaned forward, his lips close to Yako's ear, and he whispered. "And you know what? Maybe he was better."
Yako's hand flew to the dressmaking scissors and, incandescent and insensible with rage, he started to slash at Bakura. Shallow cuts and grazes at first, but soon stabbing motions, and all the while Bakura just lay there, wheezing red bubbles from his mouth. Somehow that made Yako angrier and he brought the scissors down again and again until his strength started to fade.
Yako sat down next to the trembling body, simultaneously crying and laughing. He felt a flutter next to his thigh as one of Bakura's fingers twitched. Bakura was looking at him, beckoning him to come closer. "You…" he croaked hoarsely.
"What?" said Yako coldly, trying to edge away, but with some effort Bakura managed to take hold of his hand.
"…are my masterpiece." Bakura coughed and spluttered. Yako, stunned, sat and watched as Bakura's life drained away in puddles on his floor.
Yako Tenma, 27, of Miami, died suddenly on Thursday.
Tenma rose to prominence as the head designer for couture fashion house Idolatrous Illusions. While his term there was short and often tempestuous, he was passionate about his craft and his outfits graced many a red carpet, restoring Idolatrous Illusions to the success it had once seen under the leadership of Pegasus J. Crawford. Tenma's frequent hospitalizations for psychiatric issues have been much publicized. Less well-known is his charity work supporting local schools and orphanages.
Tenma is survived by his brother, Gekko Tenma.
Funeral arrangements are being made by Terry & Son and will be announced at a later date. In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to St. Cecilia's Orphanage.
A full colour feature on Yako's life and legacy will run in tomorrow's issue.