Again, nothing too bad.
Warning(s): Evil thoughts, implied rape, mental unstableness.
Summary: Bakura comes in on one of Ryou's 'sterilizing sessions' and muses on his and his other's mental states thus far. He compares his bloodlust to Ryou's love of the 'acid' that he bathes with.
I can smell it. He's bathed himself in that…substance again. The one that makes him smell almost completely inhuman. Like he's so completely clean that nothing has ever touched him. Or so he'd like to believe.
The entire house smells like it. I despise that smell.
I walk through the house, following the smell to the points where it gets strongest. The bathroom. He's still bathing? It's been over an hour; I didn't know a house could produce so much heated water. No matter.
The door comes open with an almost silent swoosh, which is easily covered up by the sound of the water pouring from the showerhead. I step into the room, taking one last breath outside of fresh air that is not seeping with that smell and heavy with water. I can't stand that smell.
I enter the small bathroom, and watch him for a moment through the hazy, fogged glass. His proportions are distorted in the mirror-like glass doors, making his body appear longer and thinner than it actually is. This is unnerving in the fact that he is already too skinny for a boy his age.
I approach the shower and watch as his arms move about in what would have looked to be graceful movements, but are now just fuzzy inaccuracies of gelatin. His hair is soaked and hangs down over his face. He bends down at the waist and grasps that vile little jug and pours some into his hand. A moment later another blast of that retched smell assails my senses and I have to fight the urge to gag.
I stand there, just watching him through the glass. I can't see his eyes, and even if I could, I'm pretty sure he's stopped crying at this point. This time had been gentler than before. Quicker might be more appropriate actually. He hadn't fought, and I hadn't toiled in extra barbaric measures of torture. The blood was mild and cleaned up easily, though that is the one smell I do love. It's different than this…this…acid he demands to wash himself in.
Blood, unlike acid, stains instead of bleaches. Permeates everything, causing whatever it touches to be tainted. And no matter how my you wash, my little other, there will always be blood. You cannot survive without it. It stays with you forever. Blood smells like metal. Copper. It's strong and pleasant. Firm, bold, and warm. Everything good about the human body revolves around blood. The heart, the brain, the skin. It all needs the blood, and the blood is most important to it.
I cover my mouth and nose for a minute as the humidity in the room reaches a new high. It's stifling to say the least. The moisture in the air seems to cleave to the scent of that substance, carrying it around like they're conjoined. I hate it.
Every time I inhale I think I can taste it. It's sour and bitter in all of the places that I look for sweetness and ripeness. I know that my other and I are said to be different, but how can I explain his attraction to this acid?
My touch must burn him more than this. And my hatred runs much deeper than any cleanser can go. The pain I inflict must have left more permanent scars than what can be scrubbed away with something that he uses to clean his socks.
I reach forward and wrench open the door, allowing my anger to rule my emotions and dictate my actions. I will hurt him for this; for insulting my ability to maim him. He will pay dearly, and if he thinks that when it is over that he can just wash it away, he is wrong.
He turns and looks at me, fear dancing for a moment in his eyes. He looks miserable. Utterly hurt, broken. I stop and stand there, looking at him, as though I'm still looking at a mock impersonation of myself through shower glass. He is not me. He will never be me. And I cannot change that.
He protects himself with this acid, because I will not protect him from myself.
He looks up at me, and hugs himself letting a bar of soap slip out of his hand and land in the tub where it is swished from side to side before losing momentum. He watches it as it does this.
"It won't go away," he says looking up at me, his breath hitching. "I can't make it go away…"
His voice breaks on the last few words and I know I have won.
I reach forward as he slumps. I care little for the water that soaks my clothes. I pull him out and don't mock him for the sobs that wrack his body now. He is shivering against me as I carry him without a towel to his room. I lay him on his bed and hold him to me. He is mine now.
His cries quiet down and his choked breaths eventually even out to steady breathing. I soothe back his hair and stare with half-lidded eyes at the wall. His skin is slowly regaining its normal smooth feel, rather than the harsh roughness that that substance gives him. I trace small patterns along his arm, and feel his breath against my neck. He is mine now and I do not have to break him any longer. It is done. And he is mine.
~ ~ ~ Owari ~ ~ ~
Short and crappy. How I like my introspectives. *winks* Well, that was rather odd. Mushy, but odd.