Title: Heads Is Tails
Author: Lysander
Rating: M, to be safe
Pairing: Yami no Bakura/Yami no Yuugi
Warnings: Blood, overextended metaphor
Notes: Sort-of-inspired by a request Daimeryan Rei made about 453045345 years ago, set a bit before Yami no Bakura and Malik duel Yami no Malik. Haven't seen those episodes in a while, so I might've fucked the timeline, but I think you'll live. Title shamelessly stolen.

Thanks to Mechante Fille and Analyst for beta-stabbing and listening to me whine.

---

The Pharaoh's footsteps announce his presence long before the wind carries Bakura his voice, but it's the words that he focuses on. Smooth, low, indistinct, quite intense; the Pharaoh probably doesn't realize how ridiculous he sounds, talking to himself.

Then again, it's a nasty little piece of fate that they're caught up in, isn't it? What are the odds that while one spirit borrowed his host's body to take a stroll around the battle ship, to gibber to himself about all the heroic self-doubt he was facing, another spirit would happen to be standing on the deck above, able to listen in quite clearly? Oh, they're phenomenal odds, really; Bakura smirks to himself at the thought. The Pharaoh's pacing the empty hallways indoors, so sure that he's alone, and by some twisted chance, his voice is stolen away by the breeze, out what must be an open window, out and up to the sky -- where waits his enemy, of course, quite capable now of setting a terrible trap.

He won't, however. Not tonight. He has plans for tonight. Big plans. Plans set into motion by a near disaster that only Bakura could work to his advantage. Partner gone crazy, whole scheme nearly compromised...and somehow, he's going to come out of it ahead. All he has to do is bring Marik down in a duel, and he's more than capable of that, God cards or no.

Still. Tempting.

The Pharaoh's voice rises in pitch slightly, made sharper and stressed by some nameless emotion. Does he even realize he's speaking to himself? True, he talks a lot to other people, always pontificating instead of just playing the damn card, but from what Bakura's seen of him, he's usually quiet when he's off on his own. Granted, usually when he's alone, Yuugi's in control.

But that's irrelevant. Still tempting.

Baiting him is always tempting, and likely always will be, because the Pharaoh never learns. How long has Bakura been stringing him along now? A game of cat and mouse with no headway made; it's a trap the Pharaoh falls into easily, if the fact that he's playing a similar losing game with Marik is any indication. Each small loss is a pittance, and the game just becomes more intriguing with each successive bout. Pity that Bakura and Marik are now pressed on opposite sides, because they could've played a much more interesting game with the Pharaoh together. Or so he imagines. Never got to put that theory to the test. Doesn't need to.

The Pharaoh's easy to fluster, because he's such a fool. Quick to passion and quick to the defense. Doesn't understand the nature of their game, really, and never will, because he can't yet accept that he's as much of the darkness as they are.

Well -- no. There's always a possibility that he'll learn. He's unstable, really, and separate from the things he feeds off of, the encouragement he craves from those friends, that ridiculous faith that buoys him up and convinces him he's in the right.… Cut off from that, he'll take quite a tumble, won't he? Spiral downwards faster than he'd like to admit: hit rock bottom with the resounding thud of a dream met head-on by reality. And then he'd know.

He'd be here, then, in their dark, and everything he likes to think he is, it'd shatter like spun glass. He'd have to pick the shards out of that arrogant face, pull the splintered pieces from those small, expressive hands. Could he point his patronizing finger quite so surely, feeling blood run down his sleeve?

Hard mouth, set like a judge's, seeming outwardly to be so reasonable, so sage, but always only one misstep away from the quivering fervor of a vigilante; that elegantly terrified discourse. So judicious when the true intention has always been and will always be self-deception. The façade would crumble quickly if those lips were split, jaw broken, mouth swollen, tongue slicked with blood. Paints a pretty picture -- drip of crimson down the sharp angles of that confident chin. It's one Bakura's sure he'll see realized before the end.

The Pharaoh knows as well as they do, surely, though he might not admit it yet, that he's walking a very dangerous line. And one day, not tonight but some night soon, the reality of it all will come down on him like the weight of the ocean, so much more devastating than what he willingly -- blindly -- took on: the weight of the world. And in that sea of glass, he'll be lost without hope.

Bakura's not sure if that's a good thing, if the Pharaoh will destroy himself or rise from the grave ever more determined like the stubborn bastard he's shown himself to be, but it's irrelevent. It'll be pretty when it happens, the Pharaoh's fall from grace, something fascinating to watch, and coming up from the ashes won't save him, anyway. Not a ghost of a chance. In the end, whatever the outcome of that fall, it'll be by Bakura's hand that he's put down for good, and that's the only thing that matters.

The rest? Trivial.

He smiles a little to himself at the sound of a second pair of harsh footsteps, a longer and heavier stride, but no less sharp, no less defiant. Seto Kaiba never learned subtlety, never learned to hide his intentions so well as he learned to hide his emotions. He's too declarative; he has no sense of tact, and very little of restraint.

He's like the Pharaoh, in a way -- evidently in a big way, if Isis's theories about him have any grounding in reality, and of course Bakura knows they do -- and it makes sense that their footsteps are offset, at a conflict, but matching. They're having one of their chats now, loaded with pseudo-philosophy, veiled taunts, circular reasoning, self-righteousness.…

They probably do this a lot, circling like cats, gauging each other. They expect, Bakura can see plainly, that in the end, it'll come down to them; what was the idiotic phrase they used? Something about how at the end of everything lay their battle. They call themselves true rivals now, fighting with honor and everything they've got. They work each other up to it, goading and goading. Fools.

Has Yuugi noticed by now that the spirit he shares a vessel with is wandering at night, doing nothing more productive than engaging in a petty game of sheathed claws with Kaiba, a pale image of the actual battle yet to come? It's ridiculous, how those two posture, snap at each other, run circles round a rivalry built on mutual pride and mutual inability to let anything go.

So foolish, because Bakura's the one they need to worry about. Marik, too, should be higher on the list of the Pharaoh's priorities than Kaiba, but that all ends tonight.

Kaiba's got one up on the Pharaoh, however, because for all that the idiot is overconfident and in denial, he has no pretenses of good will. He's out for himself, and Bakura could admire that. Kaiba wants nothing but his own glory, and doesn't have to lie to himself about his motivations. The Pharaoh's not so lucky. He'll have to admit one day that he's just a simple selfish creature like any of the rest of them. Will that break him?

"Kaiba!"

In the meantime, it sounds like he'll keep on as is, playing out the smaller game as he becomes a pawn in the larger, and Kaiba will continue in his doomed crusade, unable to accept defeat and fated never to win.

And it is fate at work, which will become clear soon. Fate, and just like it'll bring Kaiba down, it's on Bakura's side, too. Destiny is a choice, and he's made his: the Sennen items are going to be his, and all that comes with them. It's inevitable, after all. The universe is defined by the struggle between light and dark, equal forces; the only thing that tips the balance in either side's favor is the individual, and Bakura has a history of tipping.

History will not repeat itself, not this time. He has bigger plans than that.

So he doesn't dwell on his past, what fractured pieces he remembers more and more of with each passing night, and doesn't care that the first time this played out he fell, because he knows what's going on right now, and what will come to pass very shortly. So long as it's all in his favor, the particulars are meaningless. Amusing, yes, but meaningless. Egypt is distant now, as are the details: the only thing that matters is that he's going to take the Pharaoh down, and hard.

He laces his fingers, rubs his hands; they're becoming cold. Kaiba's extravagance is really ridiculous, setting the duels on top of an airship. He tries to impress, but the gesture is hollow and the wind cuts like a knife. It would be so easy for someone to have a mishap and go tumbling right off the edge.… Isn't going to be pretty when this is all said and done, but Bakura never worried about things being pretty.

Although the Pharaoh isn't bad looking, is he? There's an edge to his features, a bite: bladed cheekbones, sharp jawline, cold mouth, eyes dark and slanted and always looking accusing. The difference between the Pharaoh and his host is visible, though catching exactly when the change happens or what has changed is surprisingly difficult. More confident posture, chin tipped up, expression more intense -- those aren't enough to cause so much of a difference, but they do.

Dark is the word for it, dark and maybe alive, and dark is what they call him: Yami no Yuugi. The dark one. The other. The one with life in him, with a passion, even if it's misdirected and tangled up in ridiculous concepts of righteousness and valor. Even if he'll live and die by that holy sword.

Pity that he lost the chance to put the Pharaoh into one of his host's dolls. He'd have been fascinating to play with. What'd been the word? Forever. Bakura figures it'd take a while to get bored of someone that easily baited. There's nothing quite like being in control of something -- someone -- truly powerful, and likewise, there's a certain beauty to the sort of person who takes any kind of beating and still gets up with the same ridiculous, idiotic confidence, the same.…

But he's got better things to do than dwell on the Pharaoh.

Namely, Marik. Bakura smiles at the mental turn of phrase; he hadn't been going for double entendre, but if the opportunity presents itself... It's almost a pity, really, that Marik's snapped the way he has, broken into halves. If he plays out the deal he's made with the host, the weaker self, (who even now is sharing this body with him, though suppressed for the moment) it means Marik is going to take a little vacation from the real world.

A permanent one that involves ceasing to exist. Well, for Marik, it won't be ceasing to exist, because he'll be locked up within himself, within shadow, trapped forever in what's sure to be a wonderful sort of anguish, but for the rest of them, here in the real world, it'll be the next best thing.

...Then again, the weaker self isn't cognizant within Bakura now, and won't be until the owner of this body allows him to be. Likely wasn't expecting to be shoved into a dark corner of Ryou Bakura's compartmentalized mind when he returned the ring and transferred himself into Bakura's host, but Bakura had never set out to become predictable, so why start now? Besides, tenant though he may be, this is his body. He can treat Marik's weaker self however he likes, and there's no god and no king for him to answer to.

Though the Pharaoh might try. That could be fun to play with. He'd die so prettily for even prettier sins... But it's irrelevant in the end.

And all sorts of interesting possibilities open up, if Bakura doesn't consider himself bound to his word. And if there is one thing Bakura isn't, it's bound. Not by his word, and not by anything. Even death found itself at a loss when faced with him. Some idiot too weak to even keep control of his own body? Nothing but a blur in the corner of his eye, momentarily nudged into outline by circumstance. So easy to blur him just a little bit further, so that he could no longer be seen.

Oh, that'd be an interesting twist. Perhaps even worth trying out.

Perhaps Bakura will get lost on the way to that duel. Perhaps he'll not show up on the field, where he supposed he'd release Marik's other half from the mental prison he's locked into. Perhaps he'll just leave him there, in the dark, and after weeks it may sink in that it's been too long, that something's gone horribly wrong. Perhaps he'll simply forget, as it's such an easy mistake to make, and never let him go. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps...

Perhaps he'll wander aimlessly, utterly at a loss as to where the duel is meant to take place, and perhaps he'll encounter Marik. Perhaps he'll agree when Marik pitches him something better than the weaker one ever could've. Perhaps he'll stab Marik in the back again for being fool enough to trust him in the first place, and perhaps he'll have, in a few deft moves, won the entire of the game they've played together, scar for scar.

Just perhaps, mind you. Twist of fate, and all that. Horrible luck that it should play out that way.

Footsteps. Perhaps he'll pay the Pharaoh a visit, too.

Bakura pauses, stares down at the dark blur of clouds and ocean. Where exactly they are, no one knows. Reality ceased to have relevance the moment they entered the sea of clouds; now they are all suspended, detached, connected to reality only by a satellite feed and a radio uplink. If the Pharaoh fell now, he would never hit the ground. It's an interesting possibility, at any rate.

Even if it's just a curiosity. He'd not bother simply throwing the Pharaoh over -- metaphorically or literally -- because wrapped up in that mess of self-contradiction and posturing lies something he needs. And Bakura's not about to be wasteful, no.

Besides, why spatter the Pharaoh across the pavement, that vivid life splashing out across asphalt in a nauseating tide, when he can keep him alive? It's the darkness in him that gives him his spark, and why fail to take advantage of that? Much better to keep him alive, keep him vital.

And Bakura could probably think of something more satisfying than being able to hold the puzzle in his hands and see the look on the Pharaoh's face as he realizes that he's lost, but it'd be a waste of effort. He already knows that's everything he wants and how to get it. And it will be satisfying.

Bringing Marik down tonight won't be quite so satiating, and that's really a pity, because between Marik and the Pharaoh, Bakura's sure there's enormous potential for satiation.

Smirking again, unconsciously. He'll have to work on that, really. Yuugi's little friends are pretty thick, but they're not that thick. It's harder to keep up the guise, lately, because the real Bakura, the original owner of their vessel -- Ryou's quiet. When they're not sleeping, the spirit's in control, and his host is never present at the forefront of their halved mind.

He spends his time locked away in some silent niche, probably not hidden too well, but remote enough that Bakura would have to try to find it, which he won't. He'd be pleased with the lack of resistance from his host, but after a while, it does become rather tiresome, the silence... It happened in so many hosts before, and now it's happening again: the way the personality crumbles after so much pressure, inevitably, until there's nothing left but that...silence...

That's what the Pharaoh has. Vivacity. Strange word, but it's the one. He's all wrapped up in black and blue, sleek and understated, but under that, like blood welling up against glass, is a perfusion of color, sound, light. Yuugi's eyes are shallow, a shade something like purple, but when the Pharaoh surfaces, they darken, they darken and they glow, and that is why the Pharaoh will never be silent, even if he doesn't make a sound. There's an undercurrent of life about him, something that pulses under the surface with a frantic vitality, like the desperate throbbing heart of a man suffocating.

He'd bleed gushes from the tiniest scratch, just because of all the pressure, but that's what keeps him alive.

He'll sob for air like a bird in a trap, when death closes in around him. His control will break; of this Bakura is sure. Where he'll wind up, whether he'll cave or come back stronger, is any one's guess. For his part, Bakura hopes it'll be the latter. There's no point in a fight if it isn't a struggle, and there's something about the Pharaoh's struggling that appeals to him.

The vitality of the dying man, the desperate feel of life that might be snatched away at any moment.… He doesn't think the attraction is too hard to understand, really. A small part of him hopes the Pharaoh doesn't ever give in, because it's just so entertaining to watch him squirm.

The greater part of him is more practical, and realizes that soon he'll crush the Pharaoh just like everything else that's ever been in his path.

But one can always hope. Or dream.

Marik dreams. He doesn't hope, but he dreams. Bakura knows this because he watches, and because it's really quite obvious. The other mind, the weaker one, he doesn't dream, but he hopes. He hopes with a fervor that's alarming, but dreaming is more alarming yet, and much more impressive. Marik dreams impossible things, and has no doubt that they'll come to pass.

Marik dreams of darkness, and of Egyptian sand streaked red by dawn, of torrential rain that's hot and sticky like blood, of air that's crackling with latent electricity, and of the Pharaoh brought down to his knees. All in all, not a dream Bakura would argue with. The weaker half had the same hopes, but they were without color, without that frantic sense of purpose, of impending fruition. The original self's hopes will pale, but Marik's dreams are seared as if into his very soul.

Maybe they are. Does Marik have a soul? Marik wouldn't hesitate to brand himself. He thinks that's what he'll do to the Pharaoh, once he triumphs; gone are the petty plans to kill and exact vengeance. He has grander aspirations now, ones Bakura could admire for their sheer audacity, though they're not realistic in the slightest. Marik's working under the misapprehension that he'll actually get a chance to face the Pharaoh, and that won't happen, because Bakura brings him down tonight.

But until then, let him dream. He dreams exquisitely.

To say there's something about Marik is ridiculous. There's "something about" all of them; they're possessing the bodies of helpless mortals and playing games that will decide the fate of the world. They're courting entropy like it's nothing; they've each killed, and will kill again without hesitation. Power: a white-hot lifeline that connects the three of them irrevocably. At the most basic level, they're the same. Three variations on one dark theme. And where does that leave them?

"You!"

"You."

That leaves them somewhere terribly interesting, if Bakura recognizes those voices as well as he thinks he does. Marik -- sharp, declarative, amused, note of anticipation, voice stark against the sound of wind and the hum of the airship's motors. The Pharaoh -- lower, steadier, edged but not hard, voice fading into the wind but not lost in it, managing to assert itself all the same.

Collision. Bakura hasn't eavesdropped this much in weeks.

"What are you doing out here?" Edged with poison now, accusation, as if it's not the least bit strange for the Pharaoh to be out here, but the tombkeeper? The tombkeeper has no such right. Bakura tries to pinpoint from the sound exactly where they are. Why hear, when you can see?

And why see, when you can touch?

"What are you doing out here, Pharaoh?" Mocking, lilting, and quite right; Bakura smirks. He's getting closer, he thinks; they're somewhere to the left of where he stands now, and closer to the edge.

Snort of derision in response, soft but surprisingly distinct, meaning he must be quite near now; Bakura can visualize the look on the Pharaoh's face, so sharp and scandalized and so insincere as he tries to pretend he's the 'good guy' here.

He's not, of course, and never will be, stained as deeply as any of them could be, but the lie sits so prettily at the tip of his tongue, and rolls off his lips so readily. He's got this down to an art, hasn't he? Strange, to paint such a picture of light over someone made entirely of dark. He deludes himself, but he could probably delude Bakura, if he tried hard enough and Bakura were willing, and Marik's always been delusional, in the very best of ways.

"My reasons are none of your concern, Marik." Name like it's the vilest thing the Pharaoh's ever tasted, but Bakura on those lips will be sweeter poison still, and the Pharaoh's forgotten that. Bakura will remind him. Slowly. Thoroughly. Attention to all the little details no one but his hunter would know to exploit.

The Pharaoh's posturing just draws a laugh. Four slow footsteps as the predator advances; one sharper in response, as the prey throws instinct aside and steps closer. Defiance comes so readily to the Pharaoh, but he always loses, all the same, even though he doesn't realize it yet. If he were more reasonable, less ridiculously arrogant, he might begin to...

But if he suffers for his hubris, it's nothing more than he deserves. Fool. And Bakura doubts Marik could inflict much damage anyway -- at least not compared to what he could do to the Pharaoh. Marik destroys things, but he does it so wantonly it loses meaning. The loss is no longer felt. Just one snot-nosed brat shredding the wings off butterflies.

It works, too; Marik makes a silksoft (knife through silky skin, effortless) comment that draws a snarl. The opening play was all the Pharaoh's, but every move since then has shown him to be at a clear disadvantage. Clumsy or no, Marik's taking this round.

And they are playing a game here.

Well, a number of games. There's one that sets Bakura against Marik, with the Pharaoh in the center; they have different aims, but each a claim to the Pharaoh that's quite exclusive. After all, two people take turns looking into a mirror, but breaking it can only be done once. That's the game Bakura's going to decide tonight.

And then -- then there's the game that the Pharaoh is playing with Marik right now, the one of small sharp moves, a pawn taken and a pawn sacrificed. Threats all around and no one making good. It's the indecisive style of gaming that Bakura doesn't much like; he'd rather throw out bold moves and put the dread of certain failure into his opponent's heart. Less chitchat, more screaming.

That's always been his style; why engage in a petty battle of blow-for-blow, clashing breathlessly over worthless points and spitting defiance back and forth unto complete frothing hysteria? Why go to that trouble, when there's the option of simply laying a single trap, catching your opponent with a fundamental weakness of his, and leaving him to slowly strangle, knowing that he is now defenseless, hopeless?

Sure, the Pharaoh has an uncanny knack for slipping the noose at the last instant, but he can only dodge so many traps without slipping up. Sooner or later, his reign comes to an end; this is how it was written, not by the hand of a god-king or the voice of destiny, but by sheer force of will, cut into the flesh of the past in a thousand jagged strokes. Bakura is unstoppable, and everything -- man, God, time, fate, Pharaoh -- will bow to him eventually, because there is no other way that this can end.

That's the most important game, of course. The war he's waged against the Pharaoh. It's not the first time this rivalry has been played out, but it will be the last. His memory may be in ugly fragments and recursive references, but he knows. He knows, and that's all he needs.

And the Pharaoh knows, too. Bakura feels that quite intensely. The same thrill of using the dark magic of the Sennen Ring; there's an undercurrent of power about the Pharaoh that lingers, a taste in the air and a sense of impending disaster. Expectation rises off him like steam, and Bakura's more than familiar with the fact that anticipation only requires a small nudge to metamorphose into something else, something with spectacular consequences.

Passion gives one an edge, true, and it certainly has helped the Pharaoh before, but Bakura's talented at pushing, and one push too hard turns passion into the greatest weakness anyone's ever known. Too much emotion, too much ambition: it all becomes a hideous mess, cracking the Pharaoh's little frame (he's too small to bear all that inside, isn't he?) into a thousand pieces, something spiraling blindly towards catastrophe. Bakura doesn't like catastrophe nearly so much as Marik does, but he's certainly aware of how to inspire it.

And inspire it he will.

What are they talking about now? He wants to interfere. That's not his usual modus operandi; Bakura dirties his hands only when necessary. Most of the time he allows things to play out as they will until it's time for him to swoop down and take what he wants. He's not like Marik, in that respect, Marik who needs to be involved in every step of the process and who is always there, watching, scheming, toying.

What are they talking about now, so tense and so close together? Their voices are lower and pitched the same, so that Bakura can feel and hear, though he cannot see, the confrontation, the baited breath, the eyes locked...

Found them. There they are. Pretty little dolls like that, small in the distance. Blurred and swallowed up in the dark, two figures too close together, melted into one uneven black shape. The Pharaoh says something, sharply, a raw nerve's been touched yet again, and Bakura's almost impressed. Marik doesn't impress him much, because Marik's never beaten him and never will, but all the same...

Destiny's shifting tonight, oh yes, and it comes like the angel of death on the headwinds that rush at the back of Bakura's neck and make Marik's cloak flare up off his shoulders like great black wings. What no one knows about demons is that they take their wings off the angels they drag down: torn, bloodied and atrophied flesh, rent off pale shoulders in the final proof of corruption.

That's probably what Marik wants: the angel's flesh to drape about his shoulders, the necrotized tissue that would show the Pharaoh had been brought down -- down all the way and down for good. But Marik's oblivious if he thinks that's where the true prize lies, because there's so much more to their game than being able to claim victory, to scream defiance and retribution unto sunrise.

After all, angels and demons are made of the same divine stuff, and it's that stuff Bakura's interested in. Marik can have his symbolic prize; the real value is in the Pharaoh: in taking what he has and in taking him. That's true power: having defeated your opponent, taken -- no, forced him to give -- what he has, corrupted him entirely. Destroyed everything he is or was, and made him nothing but your own.

Possession, that's what Bakura wants, to possess the Pharaoh like any other beautiful prize. To claim all that power, to have him on his knees... That would be vengeance. Destruction may be beautiful, and tears would look exquisite in the Pharaoh's hopeless eyes, but it's nothing compared to power.

Besides, whichever way he cut the situation, it all ended with the Pharaoh's broken cries; the difference lay only in the fact that Marik would rather break him quickly and do away with him after sucking the marrow out of his bones, whereas Bakura sees the value in things Marik would just as soon destroy. He would break him slowly and keep him as long as that life was still in his eyes.

Precious little god-kings are immortal, after all; why waste what potential lay in him by shattering him entirely? Better to draw it out and to make good use of him.

And in one small way or another, Bakura is impressed with him. By him. If anything is worth fighting against, it is worth fighting for, and if Bakura fights for something, to claim it, then it is his, always. He'll discard lives and jewels like nothing, but not a prize. Not a possession that's worth more than simple currency. And even souls are specie to him, but not something like the Pharaoh. Three thousand years ago he fought for this, and he wants more than some token of victory.

He wants everything.

The Pharaoh, the Puzzle, the Ring, the Rod, the rest of the Items, the Stone, revenge -- it's all the same. One incomprehensible whirl of ambition and vengeance and destiny and anger hate murder need flames licking at the edges of what's left of his mind kept under control only out of necessity because what he wants he gets and this is the only way things can be and he'll have this and he -- it all ends with one simple fact: he'll take.

He'll take everything the Pharaoh has, and he'll take the Pharaoh, too. He has a plan.

A plan which does not include space for Marik.

What is Marik? Obstacle? Ally? Enemy?

No. Marik is something else entirely. Marik is beautiful and deadly and Marik is in his way. Marik isn't human, and neither is Bakura. Marik wants to tear everything apart the way he was torn into. Marik savors the means even as he cuts deeper and deeper into the ends; Bakura takes pleasure only in approaching his own goal. Marik would ruin everything by the time he achieved his aim, and that is where the story would end. Everything shredded and ruined and over and bathed in blood and spun haphazardly into darkness. Brute force method of coercing submission.

Strange to watch it in progress. "Such a pity about that," Marik is drawling, as Bakura steals closer. Looks down on the Pharaoh, towers over him, but uses his physical advantage sparingly; more of an art to this than simply exploiting the fact that the Pharaoh's host is smaller and weaker than his own body by far.

What are they talking about now? Bakura doesn't particularly care. Does it matter? The process is all that matters. Chipping away at the Pharaoh, piece by precious piece.

But Bakura doesn't hold for that. Bakura doesn't want to make him fall apart. Bakura wants to make him snap. And snapping and crumbling are two different things.

Marik could break him. Marik could have him now if he wanted him. The struggle would be a short one; power and skill and destiny meant nothing compared to strong bronze hands closing around a delicate pale throat and twisting. Choke the life out of him slowly, or snap his neck with one movement, or perhaps just hold him there by the collar, helpless, while he was taken in every way. It wouldn't be difficult. It could be done. Any moment Marik chose to.

But that isn't power, and that wouldn't be winning.

It isn't winning, after all, just because the Pharaoh loses. Even if the Pharaoh loses everything.

And he's going to. But not like this, because Bakura doesn't like the way this is turning out, doesn't like the way the Pharaoh seems oblivious to where his attention should be focused. Is he that stupid? That blind? Shouldn't turn his back on Marik, no, as that'd leave him dead, but he has bigger and better things to worry about, even if he's too much a fool to see Bakura now.

To see Bakura now that he's so close he can see the way the Pharaoh's eyes glint, spark like a fine blade breaking on rough iron -- less brilliant, but so much stronger. Cold stone, dull to his sky full of stars, but solid and undeniable as the fact of death. Denied it once, perhaps, gained this false life with its black emotions, but the Pharaoh can't deny this.

Nor will Marik deny this to Bakura.

"What have we here? The mad pretender and the jester prince?" Bakura's voice slips in, doesn't claw past defenses like Marik does or slide daggers between ribs so sweetly like the Pharaoh with all his illusions.

And it may slip softly and smoothly, no warning until it's far too late, but the Pharaoh flinches back all the same. Cornered animal knows only to scramble back so that neither predator is at its back, but it's clear he has no strategy beyond retreat.

Not yet. It would only take a few fleeting seconds for the dots to connect themselves in his devious little head -- even if he doesn't appreciate it anymore, refuses to admit it, that strategic mind is full up with nothing but so many deadly little machinations. Well oiled and with the poison so painstakingly, lovingly applied.

Peel back that soft skin and sleek leather, tear away the glistening muscle in wet strips, crack the sharp white bones open, and nestled in the raw red hollow of his chest is nothing more and nothing less than the heart of a king. And Bakura knows, like any king knows, just what lies in there. The Pharaoh might try, and the gods know he'll claw himself apart insisting nowhere in that dripping mess will you find what beats there now, but there's nothing the Pharaoh can do.

And for a moment that's visible in his eyes, and 'authority' and 'power' are such pale words for it; he might call death simply cold, revenge nothing more than hot, and he wouldn't be quite so far off. Pity the fool can't use what burns within him, but he'll never be able to be anything more than all that potential's vessel, not if he can't admit what he is.

And if he ever does, he'll have been forced.

"We'll finish this later, Pharaoh," Marik says as he walks away, smug in the knowledge that he's won this one encounter, but this is nothing but a coin flip in the grander scheme of things, and if Marik thinks he has better things to do, he's sadly mistaken. Rishid's murder? Oh, that's a pittance. The true game isn't being played there, and never will be. He should know better by now than to focus on the mortals.

But if he doesn't, that's his own loss, and Bakura certainly doesn't mind the opportunity to play a little bit more with his favorite prince of Egypt. And poor, precious Pharaoh thinks he can walk away from this? He's turned his back, which was the first and last mistake he'll be allowed the opportunity to make tonight, as Bakura follows swifter than his shadow and has intentions where Marik had only dreams.

Intentions that become actions, and the movement is so quick and deft it's over before the Pharaoh has time to suck in that sharp, startled breath, although he does, and it's exquisite; Bakura has that slender wrist in his hand, has the Pharaoh's arm pinned securely to the wall behind his head.

This host body isn't very strong, but it's strong enough, and in one movement the Pharaoh is locked, with Bakura's body tight against his, a forced, awkward fit but a secure one nonetheless. Bakura's arm crossed over and pinning his, shoulder wedged against his chest, the insides of their thighs touching, the Pharaoh is going nowhere.

Uneven, shallow breathing: quick little pants that escape the Pharaoh's lips in either fury or anxiety; Bakura turns his head to look the Pharaoh in the eye, and smiles at his handiwork.

"Don't touch me," the Pharaoh bites out, but while he tenses like a cat about to strike, he doesn't struggle.

He must know it wouldn't get him anywhere. What's pinning him now is far more complicated than the simple fact that Bakura's body is currently blocking any motion he could make.

His heart must be hammering in that chest, all trembling and horror like the frantic, fluttering final moments of a butterfly about to be torn out of the sky by something just a thousand times faster, just a thousand times more deadly. Bakura almost fancies he can feel it. He certainly sees it, in the jewel dark eyes and parted lips and expression of outrage that borders on terror. Same choked breath; the Pharaoh's mouth must've gone dry.

Kissing him now would be something of a bite, a sting: the acrid taste of near panic and the tremulous fervor of not-quite-hate. Because the Pharaoh doesn't hate, can't hate, because that's against his rules. The light ones don't hate, and isn't that what he'd like to think of himself as?

Oh, Bakura imagines the Pharaoh must hate him so.

But his mouth would still be dry, hot from angry terror, sticky with the idea of vengeance.

And that would be more than worth it.

"You will not harm my aibou's body." Choked out like that collar he's wearing is a bit too tight, but that's not the truth. His lungs are squeezed by emotions he doesn't want to think about -- oh, it's clear by the look on his face that he doesn't want to think about any of it -- and the implications are dizzying.

Aibou's such a strange word to use. Partner. It's not "host" like the real Ryou Bakura is to the spirit who's appropriated his body. It's not "weaker self" like the former owner of Marik's shell. It's something warm, perhaps an accurate statement of their situation, perhaps not, but all the same, a clear term of affection. It's one of the pretty gold things the Pharaoh likes to play with, to make it seem as if he's not really Yami no Yuugi, but Bakura is pure silver, and the Pharaoh is night; gold has no meaning here.

Aibou -- makes it seem as if the Pharaoh didn't steal that body, which is what they all know is the truth.

Still, Bakura rather likes the defensiveness that flares up, the way it covers a tone of almost pleading in the Pharaoh's voice. How far would he have to be pressed, in order to admit that he's truly quite desperate? When push comes to shove, he'd cave in order to spare his precious 'aibou' any harm, and Bakura knows it. Everyone knows it. And that puts the Pharaoh at a distinct disadvantage, because his weakness shows so clearly on his face that only a fool could miss it.

And he has other weaknesses, too, ones that are harder to spot, and Bakura can see them now in every bladed gesture. He almost feels sorry for the Pharaoh. Each and every one of those weaknesses will be exploited in the end. Oh, Bakura knows how to exploit.

Exquisite terror still on that angled face; little puffs of breath ghost against Bakura's cheekbones. The Pharaoh hasn't regained control yet, and he probably never will. Heart bashing itself to death against the inside of his ribcage. Pretty thought.

"I have no interest in your host," Bakura says, thoughtfully loosening his grip on the Pharaoh's wrist. It won't do to leave a bruise, of course. Release, disengaging, gap. The Pharaoh's arm drops bonelessly to his side. Eyes wide again with question, furious over the idea of being let go as much as the idea of being pinned. He doesn't like having to owe anyone anything, does he? It'd sting less to have been held prisoner than to have been given release.

Too beautiful to resist continuing: "After all, Pharaoh -- it's you I want."

Eyes like stars: with a spark like lightning strike there's the flash of hate, fury, light, blinding stars -- everything starts now; the Pharaoh chokes, flounders, shudders now with anger, with something worse, with that white-hot intensity, same as always, he's overcome, staggered, visibly so, and it's not anger at all and Bakura knows. And he smirks just to prove it before releasing the Pharaoh entirely and turning away.

Perhaps now the lesson will stick, that only one of them has the authority to walk away from this, and it's not him.

"I don't know yet how to destroy you, Bakura" -- the Pharaoh's voice cuts clearly through the night, sharp and defiant as always, words sweetened with venom -- "But I swear I will do everything to try."

Bakura's smiling again, smiling still. It's been a beautiful night so far.

"I expect nothing less of you, Pharaoh." He can lilt just as poisonously as his match. "What little that is."

Nothing left in response but choked rage, and that's all he needs to hear. After all, the Pharaoh is a work in progress. You can't rush things like this, really. It takes careful planning, delicate incisions, move by deft little move.

What began as simply narrowed eyes and lips pressed into a thin line: disgust -- what began as only that has slowly metamorphosed into the creature Bakura leaves now, in the night, in the dark. In this. Uneven breath, lips pale and wet with poison that would drip down his chin, collar that chokes him, slender little hands in tight little fists, little little little is the word for him, little and dark and venomous, those slanted, accusing eyes gone near black in the low light, black with hate and all the things the Pharaoh doesn't want to feel; the little king is dark and devious, and the little king wants to murder.

Because it's not killing, really. It's never been killing and it never will be. For people like them, it can only ever be murder. Because he'll like it, when he's pushed far enough, and no justification can make it stop being murder, if he likes it. And Bakura knows this, and Marik knows this, and the Pharaoh knows this better than either of them. The Pharaoh's the one standing on the edge, of course, and the one to fall always feels it most.

But they all know it's there. Tremulous and tender under a surface so pale and smooth and thin; slightest pressure and he'll bruise, single pinprick and it wells up hot and dark and sticky like blood on asphalt. Throwing the Pharaoh down into a sea of glass is unnecessary if one wants to see his blood, because it's vivid in the color of his eyes: that rare but instantly recognizable color of a fresh wound in the dark. Blood should look black without any light but there's a particular shade to it like sunlight to the drowning victim: unmistakable even as it's spiraling further and further and further and further

Away.

The Pharaoh's eyes are that color, Bakura speculates, as he keeps walking, as he ignores the silent, shuddering boy he's leaving behind, because in the end, that's all he ever have.

Because underneath the pale veneer, the pretty cheekbones, the sharp chin, the neatly curved mouth, he's like them. The violence is unnecessary to bring it out, because it's clashing incessantly inside him even now. Does the Pharaoh wake up in the middle of the night with blood trickling out of his mouth? Blood like teardrops down those smooth cheeks, pretty streams from the corners of his eyes? Blood dripping steadily from his nose? It's a wonder little Yuugi isn't bleeding constantly, considering what inhabits him.

Maybe he does, and he covers it up. They all have bloodstained tissues in their back pockets, because they're all bleeding, really. Whether it's tears or split lips or broken jaws or what Marik likes: skin peeled back, delicate bones snapped, flesh ruined and ruined and ruined. They all bleed through their respective masks, in one way or another, and the Pharaoh's no exception. He just tries to pretend that he doesn't know the cause. Or maybe he's deluded himself to the point that he can look into the mirror and ignore the dark red trickle from the corner of his mouth. After all, who sees allegory in the mirror and reacts?

But he will react. If not now, then later. And whether it takes fingers bent back until those little bones crack or malicious kisses layered on lips sticky with poison, the Pharaoh will come to them with his eyes and razor cheekbones and his deadly little hands, and that will be his undoing.

Because the Pharaoh is dark, in the end, and no one can defy his nature.