Marik's in South America, Bakura's in France, and everyone keeps on their underpants.
Characters: Marik (darkreflected) and Bakura (grey_shade).
Rating: PG?
Warnings: Drug use, possibly naive/glamorized. *sticks tongue out at Savior*
Summary: Marik calls Bakura, after he calls Diabound (RP not posted yet). It's now debatable which of them puts the 'psycho' in psychoshipping.
Braaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnssssssssss.
Marik was sure that was what zombies thought. They wanted brains. They craved brains. They were like the Scarecrow from Oz, in that. Marik wasn't a scarecrow, he knew, though his hair was yellow and stood up straight like straw. He wasn't a Cowardly Lion either, and he didn't like Richard Lionheart even in the Disney version. He didn't even like Aslan. What was so special about lions anyway? Gryffindor didn't matter; courage was overrated.
Bakura was nothing like a lion, but he could imagine Bakura being like a snake. A white snake, a pale snake, a vicious, venom-fanged snake. White underbelly, pale from lack of sun, and snake-slit eyes with a forked tongue (trust not what the snake says, there is poison in his kisses).
Bakura wasn't his boyfriend and zombies liked brains, but Marik thought he ought to invite Bakura to the wedding anyway. Ask him to be the best man, maybe. Congratulate him on not having any babies, because congratulating him on not having any brains might not be the best move.
Marik had a cellphone now. He could call Bakura from that. He still knew Bakura's telephone number, despite everything else. It was etched into his mind, tucked between synapses and hidden in his mouth, behind his teeth. It had been tattooed into his gums and when he licked over dry, cracked lips, he felt them quiver on his tongue like tastebuds, hungry to be out.
He instructed the girl on what the number to call was, and saying it felt like Bakura's name. When she passed him the cellphone, Marik's hands were shaking and he thanked her in Japanese, not Spanish, but she smiled as she backed out of the room anyway.
Paris was lit with warm sunshine, golden and beautiful; dappled lights ran over the parasols outside a small café in the centre of the city, where a white-haired young man was sitting with a cup of warm coffee in his hand and a very patient little smile on his face. The man who was just leaving tipped his hat; said "Merci, merci," for what might have been the twelfth time, before leaving. Which suited Bakura, to be honest; it wasn't the kind of day where you wanted the company of some idiot who appeared to think he'd just come out of some boring B-movie about the mafia and who had just been given enough conflicting information to get himself killed by this time next week. Bakura didn't particularly care about that, in all honesty; everything he said and did here was merely a game to him, and it would be so until he decided to pack up and go home.
Home didn't seem particularly appealing at the moment, and why would it be when one could be in Paris, in winter sunshine and culture? So he supposed he would be sitting here playing the dangerous game for a particularly comfortable and long time; or, at least, until some ridiculous commitment drew him back to what he liked to refer to as 'real life'. The life where he had brothers, and an education to get, and commitments, and all of those boring little things that didn't seem to matter so much when you were in a foreign country. One of those being that his cellphone was ringing; it appeared to be doing that a lot, lately. He checked the caller ID, and it read Marik.
Well, that was interesting. He picked up the phone, flipped it over in his fingers, contemplating answering it; Marik was both part of 'real life' and not part of it, and was certainly no part of his exquisitely planned head games, but he supposed there'd be no harm in some communication. He supposed he missed Marik, in some quaint way; it wasn't that he wasn't getting enough sex, because he was, or that he didn't have enough companionship while the other wasn't with him, because that certainly wasn't true either. He supposed it was likely more due to friendship, than anything else.
"Bakura," He answered the phone with his name, somewhat professionally (as he always did), as if he hadn't checked the ID at all.
"Yes." Marik agreed, and his voice was like a curl of smoke, a little raspy but mostly smooth, insiunating and sliding through everything like it could dissolve right through a soundproof wall and reassemble itself into something that was quite unlike what had originally been said.
"Yes. You're Bakura." Quite the statement that, because Bakura was Bakura but who was Bakura really? Where was he? Where was Marik? Who was Marik? Marik wasn't the Cowardly Lion or the Scarecrow, but maybe he was Popper's black swan. Had it been Popper? Popper. Popcorn. Party Pooper. Whoever he was, he wasn't invited to Marik's wedding. Or Marik's reception. But Marik wouldn't be drawing up the guest list on his own, so maybe Popper-Popcorn-Party-Pooper would sneak his way on anyway. Maybe they'd have a fancy dress party and he could be a white swan, dressed in nothing but a silk collar and feathers in his hair.
That might be a bit obscene but Marik had been on his knees in an alleyway earlier, coughing up blood. That was more obscene than anything else could be. He'd lied and said he was in love; that was more obscene than anything else could be.
The city was obscene with life around him, and oh, Marik might just be in love with the word 'obscene', it budded so beautifully on your mouth and spilt like laughter, hissed like a snake and Bakura was a snake but apples were boring compared to the vegetation Marik had been trying lately and Bakura never gave away knowledge. Bakura was somewhere far away from Marik, and Marik was in a city that laughed all night long, that sang at the top of its voice and danced to the sound of gunfire, the rat-a-tat of machine gun fire holding a beat better than any drum ever could. Marik was in South America and the rich lushness of both its poverty and its joy was in such stark contrast to the old, elegant dignity of Europe; the bright colors and dirty sidewalks were as alien to Europe as the cinnamon-brown of Marik's skin was to the vanilla-white of Bakura's. More alien, in fact, because cinnamon and vanilla were both spices and Marik's skin had once been very close to Bakura's, had contrasted beautifully, whereas South America had never been close to Europe, South America lived and died like its existence was a defiance of a world in muted colors, and Europe decayed like a grand dame of the ballet, ageing but lovely.
Marik couldn't taste Bakura's kisses on his lips, even when he tried, but there was a little powder there and the granules itched at his tongue even as he waited for Bakura to reply.
Bakura was about to reply, but then the waitress appeared and the next thing he said was in French, fluent and easy, and only a little bit stilted on occasion. French was a stunningly romantic language, Bakura thought; it sounded so beautiful, and yet all he had said was 'Thank you very much, may I have the cheque?'. How strange the world was, sometimes. And yes, he was Bakura; he wasn't sure what exactly Marik was trying to say or prove by telling him so, but frankly Marik sounded high. Dealing with a high Marik would take patience, a little bit of time and some nicotine; as one hand held the phone still to his ear, the other reached for the pack of cigarettes that laid on the table; positioning it in his mouth, before flicking the expensive lighter, Bakura took a drag in and exhaled thoroughly before he deigned to answer.
"Yes, Marik, I am. How can I help you?" It was hard to be anything other than vaguely formal; they hadn't spoken for a while, and had fallen into the uncomfortable zone of being people I've had sex with before but have fallen out of contact with. Marik, particularly when influenced by whatever illegal substance he had ingested or injected now, sounded almost alien (uncomfortably foreign, in fact, when French was currently the language he was far more used to speaking and there was a lighter tone to Marik's voice, something cloudy that probably shouldn't have been there). Bakura never used drugs, apart from nicotine and paracetamol; he couldn't cope with the loss of control such things brought with them. His love affair with control had become, recently, more and more prominent, and it was working for him to great effect. It was a necessary evil, many would have said, but Bakura found the sweet twinge of satisfaction when someone walked to danger doing exactly what you said, because you'd engineered it that way, as much an addiction as drugs ever might be. He would have to get out of this, of course, before the police decided it was time to end his party.
Just, not yet. He would know when would be the right time.
That sounded like French, to Marik. Where did one speak French? France, of course. Quebec. Algernon? No. That was the man from Sleeping with Ernest. Importance of being Earnest. Ernest Whatever. Algerion? Some country, anyway. Or was it that there were people from that country in France? They were called beurrs or something. Bears. Except wasn't that what heavyset gay men were called? Or possibly hairy gay men.
Marik was neither. The drugs had thinned him out, made his bone structure even more prominent and given his veins a look like they would love to rip out of his muscles, honed to the point that it looked like maybe they'd been layered right over his bones. Junkie chic in an expensive suit and wearing attitude instead of sunglasses, because sunglasses were stupid and attitude never was. Even if landed you in dentention, but Marik hadn't been in school for months.
They had nothing to teach him he was interested in knowing.
Bakura was asking him a question. Pop quiz? What would he get if he gave the right answer? Something better than condescending approval from some jackass, anyway. Bakura knew better than to be condescending around Marik, though Marik didn't like the formality much either. How long had it been? Time was blurred around him, and he couldn't quite tell how much of what he remembered had happened yesterday, a long time ago, or never happened at all. He thought it had been a long time. Probably too long.
But he was the one calling now, and Bakura had asked him a question, and it was probably only polite to answer.
"I don't need help." Yes. That was true. Marik was pleased to know that it was absolutely true. "I want you to come to my wedding."
That was absolutely true as well. There were more things that Marik wanted but that didn't matter. Marik always only told the truth. He'd insinuate and implicate and let people draw false conclusions but he never outright lied. It wasn't his style; he liked creating his own artificial handicaps, not the least because he knew that if it ever got too dire, he could always take them away.
There was a moment of surprise at the statement; and then Bakura laughed, and the sound was an intricate mix of French sunshine and sinister amusement. Marik was getting married? Well, either that was true, which was amusing enough in itself, or Marik was merely delusional, which was amusing at face value, let alone anything else. He ran back a hand through his hair (it was longer at the front, now, but shorter at the back; he'd fancied a somewhat radical change, and unevenness was it. His hair looked sharp, which was the image he needed to portray at the moment), and then repositioned the cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. Then, decided to answer what the other had said;
"My congratulations." The tone was wry, and mocking in that distant way Bakura always sounded when talking to people; "I'll be sure to attempt to take time out of my schedule to jet over. Send me an invitation."
He paused, and the pause was enough time to blow smoke out from nose and lips. An easy fix to keep him from being frustrated at what seemed like a drug-addicted man's meandering way of attempting to get his attention. There were a lot of drug-addicted men who did their best to get his attention at regular intervals, mainly to fund their habits, so it was becoming fairly difficult to take Marik seriously when he was obviously stoned. He thought of another amusing and more obvious question.
"Who are you marrying?"
The real question, of course, was 'how good is your drug-induced subconscious imagination'? But Bakura would never voice that aloud; such would be impolite, after all, and he was only impolite after dark.
"You can be the best man." Marik promised, and laughed as well, because it was hard not to laugh when Bakura laughed. The laugh sounded familiar at least, the usual mix of amusement and cruelty, the knowledge that if Marik was laughing, there was probably someone hurting, somewhere. And it was probably Marik's fault; his streak of sadism had never been hidden though in Marik's favor, he had never really meant it to go as far as it had with Yami.
And then everything had gone wrong and Marik had tried to be better for a little, tried to be less damaging because Yami had broken and when it came down to it, Marik was a twin with a J-Rock obsessed brother and an alcohol sister, and that really wasn't anything near enough to make him twisted enough to want to drive someone insane. Except he had done it anyway, and what could be done couldn't be undone, not when it came to people and their minds, so it didn't matter what Marik did. He couldn't get any worse, and he didn't see the point in trying to be better.
Being bad was so much fun; it came naturally to him.
The question about who he was marrying made Marik grin, suddenly sharply amused and vicious. "Yami."
He spoke the single word both like an invocation and a curse, like a statement of the obvious that was only obvious because the curtains had been drawn away from the prize that wasn't supposed to be won. Yami, of course, of course, because Marik wasn't marrying Bakura and if he wasn't marrying Bakura (Bakura was not his boyfriend), then who else would he marry? Who else mattered, even a little?
Why, Yami, of course. In a sense, Yami had been both his greatest triumph and his worst defeat; the former because he had never damaged anyone quite like he'd destroyed Yami, and the latter because what had happened to Yami had irrevocably changed Marik. The abyss might stare back at you but what happens in the end is that you either walk away or take a jump into it and Marik had never been good at walking away. The urge to watch ants burn under his microscope had always been stronger than the normal person's fear of being caught.
"Why not?" Bakura drawled amusedly to the comment about him being the best man; he was good at everything he did, at the moment, so why not best? It seemed unequivocably fitting at the present time. He drew the cigarette back from his lips as the waitress brought the cheque, handing her a plastic card and communicating once again in French. What he said now was obviously something he said often; for a language that was not the one he was born to speak, it was smooth and practiced. Bakura had always enjoyed languages; the little cell bars that held humanity apart. It was the most delightful thing to see, to someone with Bakura's slightly strange temperment, that with time one could break down those bars, so long as you were clever enough. Bakura wasn't a genius, but he was always clever enough.
The answer of Yami, though, mildly surprised him. Marik's whole saga with Yami had been going on for so very long, now, that he'd expected at least one or the other of them would have forgotten about it and moved on; yet, there they were, and Yami at least was still imprinted strongly in Marik's wasted little head. It was perfectly pathetic, but looking down on Marik through words was hardly advisable either. He didn't say anything at all that would be offensive, or impolite, or even show his disapproval; all he answered with was a mild "That's nice. I hope you'll be happy together."
Because the sad thing was, they probably would be. Marik had brought Yami down to his level, and now the two were likely just dysfunctional enough to mesh together perfectly; Bakura could remember a time when he was lodged in his real world, and concerned about such things, but such times had long passed. The waitress came back with the check, and he stubbed the cigarette out with long, pale fingers before standing and heading along the pavement; he measured his footsteps with the cracks of the paving stones, not because he felt he had to (although he had used many people with that kind of disorder to his advantage) but just because there was something right about hopping from foot to foot in the correct places.
"So, do you have a date in mind? I'm rather busy for the rest of this month, you see."
"I'll make sure you're on the 'admitted' list, then." Marik laughed again, and leaned back in the sofa, looking out of the window. The glass was cracked and stained a pale yellow, as if someone had been breathing out with nicotine-laced breath on it. Marik didn't actually smoke. Bakura did.
Marik remembered Bakura's userinfo and the bar that said for how Bakura had quit. He remembered when Bakura started again; Bakura was probably smoking now, so far away from everyone that might have cared enough to try to make him stop again. Except maybe Marik was just deluding himself. Maybe there was someone there that Bakura still listened to, someone new and shiny and not all the way over in fucking South America where the colors were so bright that even sober, they looked like hallucinations.
Even through the stained glass, the colors were as bright as Marik's eyes. Addiction couldn't take the shine away from them, only turn the shine feverish.
Bakura sounded so calm. Marik hated that.
He made himself laugh, though, laugh and lean back in the chair like he was as calm as Bakura (but Marik was only pretending, forever and always he would have to pretend), "No date set yet, but your brother's agreed to have the angel be the ringbearer, and to carry her down the aisle since she can't walk yet."
Given away. Yusra wasn't going to be a wedding gift but Diabound would have to give her away eventually. Just not to Marik or to Yami and by the time Yusra was old enough to marry, Marik would be too old to marry.
...Hopefully, she wouldn't marry Bakura. That would be worrying.
"I'll make sure you're on the 'admitted' list, then." Marik laughed again, and leaned back in the sofa, looking out of the window. The glass was cracked and stained a pale yellow, as if someone had been breathing out with nicotine-laced breath on it. Marik didn't actually smoke. Bakura did.
Marik remembered Bakura's userinfo and the bar that said for how Bakura had quit. He remembered when Bakura started again; Bakura was probably smoking now, so far away from everyone that might have cared enough to try to make him stop again. Except maybe Marik was just deluding himself. Maybe there was someone there that Bakura still listened to, someone new and shiny and not all the way over in fucking South America where the colors were so bright that even sober, they looked like hallucinations.
Even through the stained glass, the colors were as bright as Marik's eyes. Addiction couldn't take the shine away from them, only turn the shine feverish.
Bakura sounded so calm. Marik hated that.
He made himself laugh, though, laugh and lean back in the chair like he was as calm as Bakura (but Marik was only pretending, forever and always he would have to pretend), "No date set yet, but your brother's agreed to have the angel be the ringbearer, and to carry her down the aisle since she can't walk yet."
Given away. Yusra wasn't going to be a wedding gift but Diabound would have to give her away eventually. Just not to Marik or to Yami and by the time Yusra was old enough to marry, Marik would be too old to marry.
...Hopefully, she wouldn't marry Bakura. That would be worrying. Even Marik's drug-addled brain knew that.
Anyone at all marrying Bakura would be wrong.
"You do that." Bakura answered, like the entire story of Marik's marriage was nothing but a big joke, all for his amusement. Which it still might be, he contemplated (Bakura's ego had only increased in size over his stay in France; it was being pandered to as if you were someone very important that did it); as Marik of the two of them had always seemed to be the more ... attached. Well, if Marik had been expecting a continued attachment, perhaps he shouldn't have fallen out of touch so badly, started taking copious amounts of drugs and apparently copping off with Yami. Such things quickly downsized any interest Bakura might have in a person. It was only due to the fact that they'd had such a close friendship that he was, in fact, still talking to Marik while he was quite so... not lucid.
At the mention of Diabound and the baby, something struck a chord in Bakura's face; he hadn't heard from Ryou or Diabound for a long while, which in itself wasn't the issue. He was sure they both knew full well that he wouldn't be doing anything stupid, so that wouldn't be the problem; perhaps the issue was more that he wasn't a particularly good brother. But the brief stab of conscience quickly passed, and Bakura's face soothed back into the bland expression of calm uncaring.
"That'll be nice," He commented wryly, "Just hope she doesn't start crying, then. That'd spoil the atmosphere."
This sort of small talk was the kind he'd had to master; he'd never been this polite, but the French were relentlessly so, thus it had been adapt or die. Bakura had chosen the former.
"Oh, I will. Still haven't lost my ability to plan." Marik's laugh was wry but not tired. He'd taken ... something ... before calling Bakura. Had needed it, after his conversation with Diabound had nearly worn him right down to his bones. He couldn't remember exactly what, though. It had been grainy, he rather thought. Some sort of powder.
There were white powders he liked especially. Couldn't quite remember why he liked those, but he had the feeling it had something to do with Bakura. Bakura had never really done drugs, though, had he? Only nicotine.
Not only Marik but Marik was hardly a drug because it took two people to fall out of touch and if Marik had disappeared as soon as he'd hit South America, well, it had been rather a long time since he'd heard from Bakura either.
That prompted the sudden question, genuinely curious, "What are you busy with?"
As an afterthought, Marik added, "Line's secure."
Because of course it was secure. Considering where he was, anything less than a secure line would have the police breathing down their backs. Or were the police paid off too well, in little packets of powder and pills, to bother with that? Marik didn't know or precisely care. He wanted to stay out of jail, his little stint behind bars had been enough to convince him that prison life didn't suit him, but as long as that was accomplished, he wasn't bothered by the details.
Bakura might crave power and respect; Marik had always been more inclined towards distruction.
And if the baby started crying during the wedding, well, that would only be suitable.
"What am I busy with?" Bakura laughed again, suddenly, the sound another technicolour wave against the monotony that his too-calm voice had been; he didn't laugh very often anymore, and found the now-unfamiliar way his throat was moving to be fairly pleasant. He'd used to have quite a fun laugh; loud, bright, rather maniacal. This laugh was somewhat different; a little darker, a little more controlled, but it was still the same in many ways, and it was quite nice. It silenced fairly quickly, though, because laughing was somewhat an expression of amusement, and Bakura wasn't that amused, not really. Perfectly calm, a little uncomfortable, a little nostalgic, but not amused; and wondering where they went wrong, really. It wasn't the sort of sentimental thought he would have about any kind of relationship; sex could be found in most places. But their friendship, that was different; that had been pretty special. It felt fairly absent now. Not to worry, though; he likely wouldn't see Marik for a long, long time, so it didn't really matter. Thus, a particularly sarcastic answer to what he'd been doing was more than allowable, it was somewhat justified.
"Head games and not taking drugs, Marik."
There was something resentful about the way he said it, somewhere beneath the layers and folds of calm and what was almost disdain. He wasn't quite such an emotionless automaton as he might like to make out, every now and then. It was handy, to be able to pretend that such was what you were, particularly when sending someone into danger (distracted amusement and general glee really weren't appropriate for such situations, he'd found this out quickly upon getting involved in the motions here). He'd been quite sharp with Marik, hadn't he?
He hadn't been sharp with anyone in a while.
That had been uncomfortably pleasant, too. This conversation was bad for him.
Marik smiled.
At least that was familiar.
Not his smile because Marik tended to grin more often than smile, a crazy, not-quite-bound grin that looked like it could leak into the air and infect people with his own particular brand of boundary-breaking daring. His smile wasn't that familiar -- when he smiled, it was always knife-sharp and edged with cruelty, so this smile, in particular, was a little odd. It was nearly wistful, like nostalgia could hit him too, and something in his stomach twisted around on itself.
It felt like his intestines were curling around each other and strangling his internal organs. The pain made him curl up in the chair just a little, eyes squeezed tightly shut, but Marik kept his breathing controlled, inhaling and exhaling as steadily as usual. He wouldn't give Bakura the wrong impression; his words hadn't actually hurt, Marik was too used to that sort of behavior from Bakura.
Inhale. Exhale.
...It felt odd to think of those two words out of context of inhaling something besides slightly smoky air.
"Mmm, head games." Marik let himself laugh as well, amused and not afraid of showing it, eyes glittering indigo under the bright haze that covered them. "And here I always thought that was my area of expertise."
He didn't bother saying anything about Bakura's later comment. Why should he? It was true enough, and Marik didn't lie to Bakura. Or, more accurately, Marik rarely lied at all. He implied, and he let lies be believed, but he didn't lie outright.
He liked setting up little barriers like that for himself; it made life more interesting.
The fact that it also made him more trustworthy, insofar as someone like him could be trustworthy, was something of a bonus.
"Well, things change," Bakura answered; if they had been speaking in person, there would have been some form of expansive hand gesture to go with it, to prove that he wasn't at all bothered. But now he said it, Bakura had to think about it; is that what distance had done, then? Distance made Bakura into Marik (and that was something he'd never really wanted to be; Marik had been that dark space that Bakura had thought about going to but never quite stepped) and Marik into something else; something that would seriously talk about marrying Yami, something that would be dependent on drugs, something altogether fairly pathetic? It was an unusual thought, and one that left him cold. He stopped thinking about it, and the small beginnings of a smirk began to linger about his lips, as if he'd had another thought that pleased him.
"From my past experience of your games, I'm better at it." He added; it was true. Marik's games were usually petty - Bakura had causes behind them, and even if those causes were petty, at least there were reasons. And reasons made a much better way of making people do what you wanted them to; all you had to do was convince them that they believed in it,too, and everything would fall into place. Bakura didn't think this was wrong; if they died for a cause, they'd feel better anyway, even if it were skewed and misconstrued. That wasn't his problem.
"Evolution." The one-word comment was thoughtful; Marik had been reading Darwin's Origin of Species the other day in a bus stop. It had been there, lying on the seat, and it had been in English. He wasn't sure who'd left it there, or why, but he'd picked it up and started reading. He'd missed his bus too because it wouldn't have felt right to take it away from the bus stop, even if he could have left it at another bus stop.
The ashes had flown everywhere when he'd burnt it, though. So maybe the book had left the bus stop after all. Too bad that knowledge didn't really work by osmosis. Inhaling ashes would get you nothing but a blocked nose and an unpleasant headcold.
"He called it transmutation at first." It wasn't a non-sequitor. It was still about Darwin. Transmutation was the wrong word, though. Because it meant one thing changing into another, but it had a degree of urgency that was false for the slow process of evolution. Transmute. Transport.
Transcend.
Marik could transcend this conversation.
Rise like the phoenix, die like the moon (in stages).
Because Bakura was wrong. Marik was always better at head games. Even with his own head spinning, even with colors changing and twistng and the world evolving right in front of him, Marik was still better at head games.
The ability to inflict pain always came with a price; Bakura was a thief and Marik wasn't.
Power was easier to create than to steal.
"Really? Tell me what you've done, then." A half-challenge and this was nearly even, nearly the way it had been, but Marik was smiling again, leaning back and wondering what Bakura would say. Because if Bakura became him, and Marik became someone else, who was marrying Yami and who was Yami? Marik had embraced the sides of him that he'd sought to hold at arms-length, and Bakura had walked right into the space that Marik had left empty. So was Yami Bakura now?
...Was that why Marik was marrying him?
Marik hoped not.
Bakura paused, contemplatively. He supposed he could tell Marik about all of his little schemes and plots; but why would he bother doing that? Marik wasn't involved, he wasn't part of any aspect of Bakura's life while he was here. And having had this conversation, he had the feeling that he would be here for the foreseeable future - he couldn't really imagine, at the moment, attempting to talk to his brothers, or any other of the people he knew, trying to fill the now great and yawning divide between them. Going to a supposed wedding would thus be interesting; but the point was sound and solid. Marik could issue all of the challenges he wanted, but Bakura was now more than experienced at rising to challenges that would be impossible to complete or win; because Marik's pride, if he was still the same Marik (and he didn't seem that way, but Bakura wasn't taking chances) would never allow him to take a fall to Bakura, so the argument would merely go on. And even thinking of comparing his delicate, intricate schemes here in the French politic to Marik's continuing saga with Yami was merely ridiculous; Bakura would never allow any of his games to become that personal. Thus, he easily won this fight without so much as having to think about it; when you allowed yourself to become personally involved, that was always when you lost. It was simply a foolish thing to do, and so Bakura simply would never do it; why should he get involved in one person's fate, start caring, or being deliberately uncaring, about their future? It made no odds to him.
"I've no time for getting the ruler out now, Marik," He answered with a roll of the eyes that Marik wouldn't be able to see, but likely would be able to hear in his voice. He had been feeling nostalgic merely moments ago, but now he was simply feeling disdainful. And that was better, more normal. "That would be infantile."
His tone was effortlessly superior. As it always was, these days.
"Worried that you'll come off the worse?" Marik couldn't help but laugh at that. It sounded so familiar to have people back away from a challenges they didn't think they could win.
Besides, the mention of the ruler made him think of the rumors that had been going around school about Bakura versus him and how he'd won. Naturally. Though perhaps that had just been an assumption on everyone's part because Marik was stronger. Which was rather stupid because strength didn't have anything to do with size. Strength could come from intelligence as well, though size didn't have anything to do with intelligence either because otherwise, nerds would be a lot bigger than they were.
The innuendoes really just made themselves, didn't they?
Though maybe that was also because of whatever Marik had taken. He wished he could remember what. He rather liked the way it was making him feel.
Or maybe that was because he was talking to Bakura for the first time in quite a while (Bakura was not his boyfriend), but that was too romantic a thought for Marik.
Marik was many things, but a romantic was not one of them. Or so he told himself at least, because romance only got in the way. Though Marik had no idea what it could've gotten in the way of. Marik wasn't going anywhere, after all.
Well, he was. He was going to the church. But where was he going after that? Hell? Heaven? The graveyard? He and Yami should hop for matching tombstones instead of rings, it would make more sense. Matching obituaries instead of vows as well, because vows were just promises and promises were made to be broken, as were hearts and fingers.
Fingers looked good when they were broken. Marik had never seen a broken heart (Bakura was not his boyfriend) so he wouldn't now about that one. A brief vision flashed across his mind, Bakura with hands that dripped red, holding a lump of bloody meat in his hand, a smile on his lips and foot on a corpse with a gaping hole in his chest. Bakura, tilting his head back, swallowing the heart whole and raw. Bakura, smiling. Always smiling.
Marik missed him so much it made his heart hurt, but he wrote it down to the drugs and closed his eyes. Closed his eyes and waited for a reply, closed his eyes and counted the irregular beats of his heart, closed his eyes and reminded him that he still had a heart.
Closed his eyes because Bakura was not his boyfriend.
He suddenly didn't like whatever he'd taken. It was turning out to be more of a downer than an upper after all.
There was a car waiting for Bakura on the corner as expected; with a nod to the waiting driver, who opened the door for him, Bakura allowed a smile to grace his face briefly. It sounded so familiar, the question, the laugh; but it wasn't familiar enough, because Marik was different now. There was something weak about him, and it wasn't just the drugs; it was something beyond the senses, yet rang in his ears and vibrated through his teeth. A sense of wrong about Marik when comparing him to his old self; at least from this phone call (it was just a phone call; maybe he was imagining things, but somehow he thought not) it seemed to be an unworthy comparison in all ways. Well, now Bakura was again busy; it had been a nice interlude, nostalgic and sort of painful in a way that Bakura hadn't felt for a while, but now it had to end.
He had things to do. A world to destroy, or save, dependent only on viewpoint; a world he was comfortable with, very much unlike this chasm that lingered between him and Marik, demanding to be noticed. He'd noticed it, and now he was going to walk away from it, because it really had stopped being his problem the very first time he had wondered why he was with Marik, back when they were at university and Bakura himself had been loud, and impetuous. The only thing from then that he still was now, was clever. And a thief, of course; but Bakura didn't steal items, nowadays. There were much more important things to steal. Like happiness, or sadness. Hearts, souls. Whatever he felt like, whenever he felt like; the world he had built was a world that catered to whatever he liked, and for the moment, Marik seemed to be as far away from that as one possibly could be.
Bakura was selfish. He always had been.
"Not at all, but perhaps another time." He said dryly, "I'm afraid there are things to be done." He paused. "Nice talking to you." It hadn't been, not really; it had been discomforting and dangerous, quite close to shattering whatever walls he had built for himself. But they were reforming before his subconscious eyes, and that was good. Very good.
"Say hello to my brother for me when you see him next," He added, and wasn't really sure why he said it; some inperceptible guilt, most likely. It quickly faded, but what was said, was said.
Would he go to the wedding? Most likely not.
"Goodbye." It sounded final, and it probably was.
"Small talk doesn't suit you, Bakura." The smile that twisted Marik's lips was quite of his control; it was close to a sneer, something angry and disappointed at once. Marik didn't prize control in the same way that Bakura did; control was something to be broken in other people.
Marik found self-control wasn't anywhere near as fun self-indulgence.
This conversation wasn't fun either, though. It had been Diabound's suggestion to call Bakura, but Marik thought that he might have done it anyway, because Bakura was, had been --
Which tense was more appropriate? Marik distracted part of his mind with that, thoughts fragmented like jewels, bright and hard and showing nothing of what lay inside them.
It was easier to hang up on Bakura like that, "Goodbye."
The phone clicked in Marik's hand as he punched the off button, and he tossed it carelessly onto the couch, then stared at the ceiling. No patterns. No pictures.
He needed another hit (Bakura was not his boyfriend, Marik needed nobody), and then, maybe, he would find Yami again.
Rating: PG?
Warnings: Drug use, possibly naive/glamorized. *sticks tongue out at Savior*
Summary: Marik calls Bakura, after he calls Diabound (RP not posted yet). It's now debatable which of them puts the 'psycho' in psychoshipping.
Braaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnssssssssss.
Marik was sure that was what zombies thought. They wanted brains. They craved brains. They were like the Scarecrow from Oz, in that. Marik wasn't a scarecrow, he knew, though his hair was yellow and stood up straight like straw. He wasn't a Cowardly Lion either, and he didn't like Richard Lionheart even in the Disney version. He didn't even like Aslan. What was so special about lions anyway? Gryffindor didn't matter; courage was overrated.
Bakura was nothing like a lion, but he could imagine Bakura being like a snake. A white snake, a pale snake, a vicious, venom-fanged snake. White underbelly, pale from lack of sun, and snake-slit eyes with a forked tongue (trust not what the snake says, there is poison in his kisses).
Bakura wasn't his boyfriend and zombies liked brains, but Marik thought he ought to invite Bakura to the wedding anyway. Ask him to be the best man, maybe. Congratulate him on not having any babies, because congratulating him on not having any brains might not be the best move.
Marik had a cellphone now. He could call Bakura from that. He still knew Bakura's telephone number, despite everything else. It was etched into his mind, tucked between synapses and hidden in his mouth, behind his teeth. It had been tattooed into his gums and when he licked over dry, cracked lips, he felt them quiver on his tongue like tastebuds, hungry to be out.
He instructed the girl on what the number to call was, and saying it felt like Bakura's name. When she passed him the cellphone, Marik's hands were shaking and he thanked her in Japanese, not Spanish, but she smiled as she backed out of the room anyway.
Paris was lit with warm sunshine, golden and beautiful; dappled lights ran over the parasols outside a small café in the centre of the city, where a white-haired young man was sitting with a cup of warm coffee in his hand and a very patient little smile on his face. The man who was just leaving tipped his hat; said "Merci, merci," for what might have been the twelfth time, before leaving. Which suited Bakura, to be honest; it wasn't the kind of day where you wanted the company of some idiot who appeared to think he'd just come out of some boring B-movie about the mafia and who had just been given enough conflicting information to get himself killed by this time next week. Bakura didn't particularly care about that, in all honesty; everything he said and did here was merely a game to him, and it would be so until he decided to pack up and go home.
Home didn't seem particularly appealing at the moment, and why would it be when one could be in Paris, in winter sunshine and culture? So he supposed he would be sitting here playing the dangerous game for a particularly comfortable and long time; or, at least, until some ridiculous commitment drew him back to what he liked to refer to as 'real life'. The life where he had brothers, and an education to get, and commitments, and all of those boring little things that didn't seem to matter so much when you were in a foreign country. One of those being that his cellphone was ringing; it appeared to be doing that a lot, lately. He checked the caller ID, and it read Marik.
Well, that was interesting. He picked up the phone, flipped it over in his fingers, contemplating answering it; Marik was both part of 'real life' and not part of it, and was certainly no part of his exquisitely planned head games, but he supposed there'd be no harm in some communication. He supposed he missed Marik, in some quaint way; it wasn't that he wasn't getting enough sex, because he was, or that he didn't have enough companionship while the other wasn't with him, because that certainly wasn't true either. He supposed it was likely more due to friendship, than anything else.
"Bakura," He answered the phone with his name, somewhat professionally (as he always did), as if he hadn't checked the ID at all.
"Yes." Marik agreed, and his voice was like a curl of smoke, a little raspy but mostly smooth, insiunating and sliding through everything like it could dissolve right through a soundproof wall and reassemble itself into something that was quite unlike what had originally been said.
"Yes. You're Bakura." Quite the statement that, because Bakura was Bakura but who was Bakura really? Where was he? Where was Marik? Who was Marik? Marik wasn't the Cowardly Lion or the Scarecrow, but maybe he was Popper's black swan. Had it been Popper? Popper. Popcorn. Party Pooper. Whoever he was, he wasn't invited to Marik's wedding. Or Marik's reception. But Marik wouldn't be drawing up the guest list on his own, so maybe Popper-Popcorn-Party-Pooper would sneak his way on anyway. Maybe they'd have a fancy dress party and he could be a white swan, dressed in nothing but a silk collar and feathers in his hair.
That might be a bit obscene but Marik had been on his knees in an alleyway earlier, coughing up blood. That was more obscene than anything else could be. He'd lied and said he was in love; that was more obscene than anything else could be.
The city was obscene with life around him, and oh, Marik might just be in love with the word 'obscene', it budded so beautifully on your mouth and spilt like laughter, hissed like a snake and Bakura was a snake but apples were boring compared to the vegetation Marik had been trying lately and Bakura never gave away knowledge. Bakura was somewhere far away from Marik, and Marik was in a city that laughed all night long, that sang at the top of its voice and danced to the sound of gunfire, the rat-a-tat of machine gun fire holding a beat better than any drum ever could. Marik was in South America and the rich lushness of both its poverty and its joy was in such stark contrast to the old, elegant dignity of Europe; the bright colors and dirty sidewalks were as alien to Europe as the cinnamon-brown of Marik's skin was to the vanilla-white of Bakura's. More alien, in fact, because cinnamon and vanilla were both spices and Marik's skin had once been very close to Bakura's, had contrasted beautifully, whereas South America had never been close to Europe, South America lived and died like its existence was a defiance of a world in muted colors, and Europe decayed like a grand dame of the ballet, ageing but lovely.
Marik couldn't taste Bakura's kisses on his lips, even when he tried, but there was a little powder there and the granules itched at his tongue even as he waited for Bakura to reply.
Bakura was about to reply, but then the waitress appeared and the next thing he said was in French, fluent and easy, and only a little bit stilted on occasion. French was a stunningly romantic language, Bakura thought; it sounded so beautiful, and yet all he had said was 'Thank you very much, may I have the cheque?'. How strange the world was, sometimes. And yes, he was Bakura; he wasn't sure what exactly Marik was trying to say or prove by telling him so, but frankly Marik sounded high. Dealing with a high Marik would take patience, a little bit of time and some nicotine; as one hand held the phone still to his ear, the other reached for the pack of cigarettes that laid on the table; positioning it in his mouth, before flicking the expensive lighter, Bakura took a drag in and exhaled thoroughly before he deigned to answer.
"Yes, Marik, I am. How can I help you?" It was hard to be anything other than vaguely formal; they hadn't spoken for a while, and had fallen into the uncomfortable zone of being people I've had sex with before but have fallen out of contact with. Marik, particularly when influenced by whatever illegal substance he had ingested or injected now, sounded almost alien (uncomfortably foreign, in fact, when French was currently the language he was far more used to speaking and there was a lighter tone to Marik's voice, something cloudy that probably shouldn't have been there). Bakura never used drugs, apart from nicotine and paracetamol; he couldn't cope with the loss of control such things brought with them. His love affair with control had become, recently, more and more prominent, and it was working for him to great effect. It was a necessary evil, many would have said, but Bakura found the sweet twinge of satisfaction when someone walked to danger doing exactly what you said, because you'd engineered it that way, as much an addiction as drugs ever might be. He would have to get out of this, of course, before the police decided it was time to end his party.
Just, not yet. He would know when would be the right time.
That sounded like French, to Marik. Where did one speak French? France, of course. Quebec. Algernon? No. That was the man from Sleeping with Ernest. Importance of being Earnest. Ernest Whatever. Algerion? Some country, anyway. Or was it that there were people from that country in France? They were called beurrs or something. Bears. Except wasn't that what heavyset gay men were called? Or possibly hairy gay men.
Marik was neither. The drugs had thinned him out, made his bone structure even more prominent and given his veins a look like they would love to rip out of his muscles, honed to the point that it looked like maybe they'd been layered right over his bones. Junkie chic in an expensive suit and wearing attitude instead of sunglasses, because sunglasses were stupid and attitude never was. Even if landed you in dentention, but Marik hadn't been in school for months.
They had nothing to teach him he was interested in knowing.
Bakura was asking him a question. Pop quiz? What would he get if he gave the right answer? Something better than condescending approval from some jackass, anyway. Bakura knew better than to be condescending around Marik, though Marik didn't like the formality much either. How long had it been? Time was blurred around him, and he couldn't quite tell how much of what he remembered had happened yesterday, a long time ago, or never happened at all. He thought it had been a long time. Probably too long.
But he was the one calling now, and Bakura had asked him a question, and it was probably only polite to answer.
"I don't need help." Yes. That was true. Marik was pleased to know that it was absolutely true. "I want you to come to my wedding."
That was absolutely true as well. There were more things that Marik wanted but that didn't matter. Marik always only told the truth. He'd insinuate and implicate and let people draw false conclusions but he never outright lied. It wasn't his style; he liked creating his own artificial handicaps, not the least because he knew that if it ever got too dire, he could always take them away.
There was a moment of surprise at the statement; and then Bakura laughed, and the sound was an intricate mix of French sunshine and sinister amusement. Marik was getting married? Well, either that was true, which was amusing enough in itself, or Marik was merely delusional, which was amusing at face value, let alone anything else. He ran back a hand through his hair (it was longer at the front, now, but shorter at the back; he'd fancied a somewhat radical change, and unevenness was it. His hair looked sharp, which was the image he needed to portray at the moment), and then repositioned the cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. Then, decided to answer what the other had said;
"My congratulations." The tone was wry, and mocking in that distant way Bakura always sounded when talking to people; "I'll be sure to attempt to take time out of my schedule to jet over. Send me an invitation."
He paused, and the pause was enough time to blow smoke out from nose and lips. An easy fix to keep him from being frustrated at what seemed like a drug-addicted man's meandering way of attempting to get his attention. There were a lot of drug-addicted men who did their best to get his attention at regular intervals, mainly to fund their habits, so it was becoming fairly difficult to take Marik seriously when he was obviously stoned. He thought of another amusing and more obvious question.
"Who are you marrying?"
The real question, of course, was 'how good is your drug-induced subconscious imagination'? But Bakura would never voice that aloud; such would be impolite, after all, and he was only impolite after dark.
"You can be the best man." Marik promised, and laughed as well, because it was hard not to laugh when Bakura laughed. The laugh sounded familiar at least, the usual mix of amusement and cruelty, the knowledge that if Marik was laughing, there was probably someone hurting, somewhere. And it was probably Marik's fault; his streak of sadism had never been hidden though in Marik's favor, he had never really meant it to go as far as it had with Yami.
And then everything had gone wrong and Marik had tried to be better for a little, tried to be less damaging because Yami had broken and when it came down to it, Marik was a twin with a J-Rock obsessed brother and an alcohol sister, and that really wasn't anything near enough to make him twisted enough to want to drive someone insane. Except he had done it anyway, and what could be done couldn't be undone, not when it came to people and their minds, so it didn't matter what Marik did. He couldn't get any worse, and he didn't see the point in trying to be better.
Being bad was so much fun; it came naturally to him.
The question about who he was marrying made Marik grin, suddenly sharply amused and vicious. "Yami."
He spoke the single word both like an invocation and a curse, like a statement of the obvious that was only obvious because the curtains had been drawn away from the prize that wasn't supposed to be won. Yami, of course, of course, because Marik wasn't marrying Bakura and if he wasn't marrying Bakura (Bakura was not his boyfriend), then who else would he marry? Who else mattered, even a little?
Why, Yami, of course. In a sense, Yami had been both his greatest triumph and his worst defeat; the former because he had never damaged anyone quite like he'd destroyed Yami, and the latter because what had happened to Yami had irrevocably changed Marik. The abyss might stare back at you but what happens in the end is that you either walk away or take a jump into it and Marik had never been good at walking away. The urge to watch ants burn under his microscope had always been stronger than the normal person's fear of being caught.
"Why not?" Bakura drawled amusedly to the comment about him being the best man; he was good at everything he did, at the moment, so why not best? It seemed unequivocably fitting at the present time. He drew the cigarette back from his lips as the waitress brought the cheque, handing her a plastic card and communicating once again in French. What he said now was obviously something he said often; for a language that was not the one he was born to speak, it was smooth and practiced. Bakura had always enjoyed languages; the little cell bars that held humanity apart. It was the most delightful thing to see, to someone with Bakura's slightly strange temperment, that with time one could break down those bars, so long as you were clever enough. Bakura wasn't a genius, but he was always clever enough.
The answer of Yami, though, mildly surprised him. Marik's whole saga with Yami had been going on for so very long, now, that he'd expected at least one or the other of them would have forgotten about it and moved on; yet, there they were, and Yami at least was still imprinted strongly in Marik's wasted little head. It was perfectly pathetic, but looking down on Marik through words was hardly advisable either. He didn't say anything at all that would be offensive, or impolite, or even show his disapproval; all he answered with was a mild "That's nice. I hope you'll be happy together."
Because the sad thing was, they probably would be. Marik had brought Yami down to his level, and now the two were likely just dysfunctional enough to mesh together perfectly; Bakura could remember a time when he was lodged in his real world, and concerned about such things, but such times had long passed. The waitress came back with the check, and he stubbed the cigarette out with long, pale fingers before standing and heading along the pavement; he measured his footsteps with the cracks of the paving stones, not because he felt he had to (although he had used many people with that kind of disorder to his advantage) but just because there was something right about hopping from foot to foot in the correct places.
"So, do you have a date in mind? I'm rather busy for the rest of this month, you see."
"I'll make sure you're on the 'admitted' list, then." Marik laughed again, and leaned back in the sofa, looking out of the window. The glass was cracked and stained a pale yellow, as if someone had been breathing out with nicotine-laced breath on it. Marik didn't actually smoke. Bakura did.
Marik remembered Bakura's userinfo and the bar that said for how Bakura had quit. He remembered when Bakura started again; Bakura was probably smoking now, so far away from everyone that might have cared enough to try to make him stop again. Except maybe Marik was just deluding himself. Maybe there was someone there that Bakura still listened to, someone new and shiny and not all the way over in fucking South America where the colors were so bright that even sober, they looked like hallucinations.
Even through the stained glass, the colors were as bright as Marik's eyes. Addiction couldn't take the shine away from them, only turn the shine feverish.
Bakura sounded so calm. Marik hated that.
He made himself laugh, though, laugh and lean back in the chair like he was as calm as Bakura (but Marik was only pretending, forever and always he would have to pretend), "No date set yet, but your brother's agreed to have the angel be the ringbearer, and to carry her down the aisle since she can't walk yet."
Given away. Yusra wasn't going to be a wedding gift but Diabound would have to give her away eventually. Just not to Marik or to Yami and by the time Yusra was old enough to marry, Marik would be too old to marry.
...Hopefully, she wouldn't marry Bakura. That would be worrying.
"I'll make sure you're on the 'admitted' list, then." Marik laughed again, and leaned back in the sofa, looking out of the window. The glass was cracked and stained a pale yellow, as if someone had been breathing out with nicotine-laced breath on it. Marik didn't actually smoke. Bakura did.
Marik remembered Bakura's userinfo and the bar that said for how Bakura had quit. He remembered when Bakura started again; Bakura was probably smoking now, so far away from everyone that might have cared enough to try to make him stop again. Except maybe Marik was just deluding himself. Maybe there was someone there that Bakura still listened to, someone new and shiny and not all the way over in fucking South America where the colors were so bright that even sober, they looked like hallucinations.
Even through the stained glass, the colors were as bright as Marik's eyes. Addiction couldn't take the shine away from them, only turn the shine feverish.
Bakura sounded so calm. Marik hated that.
He made himself laugh, though, laugh and lean back in the chair like he was as calm as Bakura (but Marik was only pretending, forever and always he would have to pretend), "No date set yet, but your brother's agreed to have the angel be the ringbearer, and to carry her down the aisle since she can't walk yet."
Given away. Yusra wasn't going to be a wedding gift but Diabound would have to give her away eventually. Just not to Marik or to Yami and by the time Yusra was old enough to marry, Marik would be too old to marry.
...Hopefully, she wouldn't marry Bakura. That would be worrying. Even Marik's drug-addled brain knew that.
Anyone at all marrying Bakura would be wrong.
"You do that." Bakura answered, like the entire story of Marik's marriage was nothing but a big joke, all for his amusement. Which it still might be, he contemplated (Bakura's ego had only increased in size over his stay in France; it was being pandered to as if you were someone very important that did it); as Marik of the two of them had always seemed to be the more ... attached. Well, if Marik had been expecting a continued attachment, perhaps he shouldn't have fallen out of touch so badly, started taking copious amounts of drugs and apparently copping off with Yami. Such things quickly downsized any interest Bakura might have in a person. It was only due to the fact that they'd had such a close friendship that he was, in fact, still talking to Marik while he was quite so... not lucid.
At the mention of Diabound and the baby, something struck a chord in Bakura's face; he hadn't heard from Ryou or Diabound for a long while, which in itself wasn't the issue. He was sure they both knew full well that he wouldn't be doing anything stupid, so that wouldn't be the problem; perhaps the issue was more that he wasn't a particularly good brother. But the brief stab of conscience quickly passed, and Bakura's face soothed back into the bland expression of calm uncaring.
"That'll be nice," He commented wryly, "Just hope she doesn't start crying, then. That'd spoil the atmosphere."
This sort of small talk was the kind he'd had to master; he'd never been this polite, but the French were relentlessly so, thus it had been adapt or die. Bakura had chosen the former.
"Oh, I will. Still haven't lost my ability to plan." Marik's laugh was wry but not tired. He'd taken ... something ... before calling Bakura. Had needed it, after his conversation with Diabound had nearly worn him right down to his bones. He couldn't remember exactly what, though. It had been grainy, he rather thought. Some sort of powder.
There were white powders he liked especially. Couldn't quite remember why he liked those, but he had the feeling it had something to do with Bakura. Bakura had never really done drugs, though, had he? Only nicotine.
Not only Marik but Marik was hardly a drug because it took two people to fall out of touch and if Marik had disappeared as soon as he'd hit South America, well, it had been rather a long time since he'd heard from Bakura either.
That prompted the sudden question, genuinely curious, "What are you busy with?"
As an afterthought, Marik added, "Line's secure."
Because of course it was secure. Considering where he was, anything less than a secure line would have the police breathing down their backs. Or were the police paid off too well, in little packets of powder and pills, to bother with that? Marik didn't know or precisely care. He wanted to stay out of jail, his little stint behind bars had been enough to convince him that prison life didn't suit him, but as long as that was accomplished, he wasn't bothered by the details.
Bakura might crave power and respect; Marik had always been more inclined towards distruction.
And if the baby started crying during the wedding, well, that would only be suitable.
"What am I busy with?" Bakura laughed again, suddenly, the sound another technicolour wave against the monotony that his too-calm voice had been; he didn't laugh very often anymore, and found the now-unfamiliar way his throat was moving to be fairly pleasant. He'd used to have quite a fun laugh; loud, bright, rather maniacal. This laugh was somewhat different; a little darker, a little more controlled, but it was still the same in many ways, and it was quite nice. It silenced fairly quickly, though, because laughing was somewhat an expression of amusement, and Bakura wasn't that amused, not really. Perfectly calm, a little uncomfortable, a little nostalgic, but not amused; and wondering where they went wrong, really. It wasn't the sort of sentimental thought he would have about any kind of relationship; sex could be found in most places. But their friendship, that was different; that had been pretty special. It felt fairly absent now. Not to worry, though; he likely wouldn't see Marik for a long, long time, so it didn't really matter. Thus, a particularly sarcastic answer to what he'd been doing was more than allowable, it was somewhat justified.
"Head games and not taking drugs, Marik."
There was something resentful about the way he said it, somewhere beneath the layers and folds of calm and what was almost disdain. He wasn't quite such an emotionless automaton as he might like to make out, every now and then. It was handy, to be able to pretend that such was what you were, particularly when sending someone into danger (distracted amusement and general glee really weren't appropriate for such situations, he'd found this out quickly upon getting involved in the motions here). He'd been quite sharp with Marik, hadn't he?
He hadn't been sharp with anyone in a while.
That had been uncomfortably pleasant, too. This conversation was bad for him.
Marik smiled.
At least that was familiar.
Not his smile because Marik tended to grin more often than smile, a crazy, not-quite-bound grin that looked like it could leak into the air and infect people with his own particular brand of boundary-breaking daring. His smile wasn't that familiar -- when he smiled, it was always knife-sharp and edged with cruelty, so this smile, in particular, was a little odd. It was nearly wistful, like nostalgia could hit him too, and something in his stomach twisted around on itself.
It felt like his intestines were curling around each other and strangling his internal organs. The pain made him curl up in the chair just a little, eyes squeezed tightly shut, but Marik kept his breathing controlled, inhaling and exhaling as steadily as usual. He wouldn't give Bakura the wrong impression; his words hadn't actually hurt, Marik was too used to that sort of behavior from Bakura.
Inhale. Exhale.
...It felt odd to think of those two words out of context of inhaling something besides slightly smoky air.
"Mmm, head games." Marik let himself laugh as well, amused and not afraid of showing it, eyes glittering indigo under the bright haze that covered them. "And here I always thought that was my area of expertise."
He didn't bother saying anything about Bakura's later comment. Why should he? It was true enough, and Marik didn't lie to Bakura. Or, more accurately, Marik rarely lied at all. He implied, and he let lies be believed, but he didn't lie outright.
He liked setting up little barriers like that for himself; it made life more interesting.
The fact that it also made him more trustworthy, insofar as someone like him could be trustworthy, was something of a bonus.
"Well, things change," Bakura answered; if they had been speaking in person, there would have been some form of expansive hand gesture to go with it, to prove that he wasn't at all bothered. But now he said it, Bakura had to think about it; is that what distance had done, then? Distance made Bakura into Marik (and that was something he'd never really wanted to be; Marik had been that dark space that Bakura had thought about going to but never quite stepped) and Marik into something else; something that would seriously talk about marrying Yami, something that would be dependent on drugs, something altogether fairly pathetic? It was an unusual thought, and one that left him cold. He stopped thinking about it, and the small beginnings of a smirk began to linger about his lips, as if he'd had another thought that pleased him.
"From my past experience of your games, I'm better at it." He added; it was true. Marik's games were usually petty - Bakura had causes behind them, and even if those causes were petty, at least there were reasons. And reasons made a much better way of making people do what you wanted them to; all you had to do was convince them that they believed in it,too, and everything would fall into place. Bakura didn't think this was wrong; if they died for a cause, they'd feel better anyway, even if it were skewed and misconstrued. That wasn't his problem.
"Evolution." The one-word comment was thoughtful; Marik had been reading Darwin's Origin of Species the other day in a bus stop. It had been there, lying on the seat, and it had been in English. He wasn't sure who'd left it there, or why, but he'd picked it up and started reading. He'd missed his bus too because it wouldn't have felt right to take it away from the bus stop, even if he could have left it at another bus stop.
The ashes had flown everywhere when he'd burnt it, though. So maybe the book had left the bus stop after all. Too bad that knowledge didn't really work by osmosis. Inhaling ashes would get you nothing but a blocked nose and an unpleasant headcold.
"He called it transmutation at first." It wasn't a non-sequitor. It was still about Darwin. Transmutation was the wrong word, though. Because it meant one thing changing into another, but it had a degree of urgency that was false for the slow process of evolution. Transmute. Transport.
Transcend.
Marik could transcend this conversation.
Rise like the phoenix, die like the moon (in stages).
Because Bakura was wrong. Marik was always better at head games. Even with his own head spinning, even with colors changing and twistng and the world evolving right in front of him, Marik was still better at head games.
The ability to inflict pain always came with a price; Bakura was a thief and Marik wasn't.
Power was easier to create than to steal.
"Really? Tell me what you've done, then." A half-challenge and this was nearly even, nearly the way it had been, but Marik was smiling again, leaning back and wondering what Bakura would say. Because if Bakura became him, and Marik became someone else, who was marrying Yami and who was Yami? Marik had embraced the sides of him that he'd sought to hold at arms-length, and Bakura had walked right into the space that Marik had left empty. So was Yami Bakura now?
...Was that why Marik was marrying him?
Marik hoped not.
Bakura paused, contemplatively. He supposed he could tell Marik about all of his little schemes and plots; but why would he bother doing that? Marik wasn't involved, he wasn't part of any aspect of Bakura's life while he was here. And having had this conversation, he had the feeling that he would be here for the foreseeable future - he couldn't really imagine, at the moment, attempting to talk to his brothers, or any other of the people he knew, trying to fill the now great and yawning divide between them. Going to a supposed wedding would thus be interesting; but the point was sound and solid. Marik could issue all of the challenges he wanted, but Bakura was now more than experienced at rising to challenges that would be impossible to complete or win; because Marik's pride, if he was still the same Marik (and he didn't seem that way, but Bakura wasn't taking chances) would never allow him to take a fall to Bakura, so the argument would merely go on. And even thinking of comparing his delicate, intricate schemes here in the French politic to Marik's continuing saga with Yami was merely ridiculous; Bakura would never allow any of his games to become that personal. Thus, he easily won this fight without so much as having to think about it; when you allowed yourself to become personally involved, that was always when you lost. It was simply a foolish thing to do, and so Bakura simply would never do it; why should he get involved in one person's fate, start caring, or being deliberately uncaring, about their future? It made no odds to him.
"I've no time for getting the ruler out now, Marik," He answered with a roll of the eyes that Marik wouldn't be able to see, but likely would be able to hear in his voice. He had been feeling nostalgic merely moments ago, but now he was simply feeling disdainful. And that was better, more normal. "That would be infantile."
His tone was effortlessly superior. As it always was, these days.
"Worried that you'll come off the worse?" Marik couldn't help but laugh at that. It sounded so familiar to have people back away from a challenges they didn't think they could win.
Besides, the mention of the ruler made him think of the rumors that had been going around school about Bakura versus him and how he'd won. Naturally. Though perhaps that had just been an assumption on everyone's part because Marik was stronger. Which was rather stupid because strength didn't have anything to do with size. Strength could come from intelligence as well, though size didn't have anything to do with intelligence either because otherwise, nerds would be a lot bigger than they were.
The innuendoes really just made themselves, didn't they?
Though maybe that was also because of whatever Marik had taken. He wished he could remember what. He rather liked the way it was making him feel.
Or maybe that was because he was talking to Bakura for the first time in quite a while (Bakura was not his boyfriend), but that was too romantic a thought for Marik.
Marik was many things, but a romantic was not one of them. Or so he told himself at least, because romance only got in the way. Though Marik had no idea what it could've gotten in the way of. Marik wasn't going anywhere, after all.
Well, he was. He was going to the church. But where was he going after that? Hell? Heaven? The graveyard? He and Yami should hop for matching tombstones instead of rings, it would make more sense. Matching obituaries instead of vows as well, because vows were just promises and promises were made to be broken, as were hearts and fingers.
Fingers looked good when they were broken. Marik had never seen a broken heart (Bakura was not his boyfriend) so he wouldn't now about that one. A brief vision flashed across his mind, Bakura with hands that dripped red, holding a lump of bloody meat in his hand, a smile on his lips and foot on a corpse with a gaping hole in his chest. Bakura, tilting his head back, swallowing the heart whole and raw. Bakura, smiling. Always smiling.
Marik missed him so much it made his heart hurt, but he wrote it down to the drugs and closed his eyes. Closed his eyes and waited for a reply, closed his eyes and counted the irregular beats of his heart, closed his eyes and reminded him that he still had a heart.
Closed his eyes because Bakura was not his boyfriend.
He suddenly didn't like whatever he'd taken. It was turning out to be more of a downer than an upper after all.
There was a car waiting for Bakura on the corner as expected; with a nod to the waiting driver, who opened the door for him, Bakura allowed a smile to grace his face briefly. It sounded so familiar, the question, the laugh; but it wasn't familiar enough, because Marik was different now. There was something weak about him, and it wasn't just the drugs; it was something beyond the senses, yet rang in his ears and vibrated through his teeth. A sense of wrong about Marik when comparing him to his old self; at least from this phone call (it was just a phone call; maybe he was imagining things, but somehow he thought not) it seemed to be an unworthy comparison in all ways. Well, now Bakura was again busy; it had been a nice interlude, nostalgic and sort of painful in a way that Bakura hadn't felt for a while, but now it had to end.
He had things to do. A world to destroy, or save, dependent only on viewpoint; a world he was comfortable with, very much unlike this chasm that lingered between him and Marik, demanding to be noticed. He'd noticed it, and now he was going to walk away from it, because it really had stopped being his problem the very first time he had wondered why he was with Marik, back when they were at university and Bakura himself had been loud, and impetuous. The only thing from then that he still was now, was clever. And a thief, of course; but Bakura didn't steal items, nowadays. There were much more important things to steal. Like happiness, or sadness. Hearts, souls. Whatever he felt like, whenever he felt like; the world he had built was a world that catered to whatever he liked, and for the moment, Marik seemed to be as far away from that as one possibly could be.
Bakura was selfish. He always had been.
"Not at all, but perhaps another time." He said dryly, "I'm afraid there are things to be done." He paused. "Nice talking to you." It hadn't been, not really; it had been discomforting and dangerous, quite close to shattering whatever walls he had built for himself. But they were reforming before his subconscious eyes, and that was good. Very good.
"Say hello to my brother for me when you see him next," He added, and wasn't really sure why he said it; some inperceptible guilt, most likely. It quickly faded, but what was said, was said.
Would he go to the wedding? Most likely not.
"Goodbye." It sounded final, and it probably was.
"Small talk doesn't suit you, Bakura." The smile that twisted Marik's lips was quite of his control; it was close to a sneer, something angry and disappointed at once. Marik didn't prize control in the same way that Bakura did; control was something to be broken in other people.
Marik found self-control wasn't anywhere near as fun self-indulgence.
This conversation wasn't fun either, though. It had been Diabound's suggestion to call Bakura, but Marik thought that he might have done it anyway, because Bakura was, had been --
Which tense was more appropriate? Marik distracted part of his mind with that, thoughts fragmented like jewels, bright and hard and showing nothing of what lay inside them.
It was easier to hang up on Bakura like that, "Goodbye."
The phone clicked in Marik's hand as he punched the off button, and he tossed it carelessly onto the couch, then stared at the ceiling. No patterns. No pictures.
He needed another hit (Bakura was not his boyfriend, Marik needed nobody), and then, maybe, he would find Yami again.