A/n: Okay, this is my new story! it's centred around the changes that the series would have to undergo if Marik had accidentally ran Bakura down in episode 69. Oh yeah, and anyone who read my other yugioh thing, the poetry corner, you may see some similarities between the imagery in this and the poem entitled 'partners'...
and since i don't usually support Theifshipping, I'm sorry if I stole someone else's idea... I don't usually read them so it wasn't done intentionally! I promise!
And one more favor... i must admit that rating these things is really difficult for me to do since it's not black and white what something is or isn't... When i write yaoi.. i write yaoi, if you get my drift. I've never had anyone see any of my other stuff like this, so if you liked(and this applies to later chapters) but felt it was a little too strong/or underrated, TELL ME! it's the only way i'm going to learn!
Anyway. Enjoy. This is only the intro.
Disclaimer: I have not owned Yugioh in any of my previous stories, so nothing has changed in this one either.
The sea-spray rose in blustery clouds, and the boat bucked and plunged desperately against the iron-grey waves. The small, cloaked figure stood at it's hull, clutching something gold and shiny underneath the fabric of the dark garment he was wrapped in. His pale ghostly blue eyes scanned the horizon; comprised of the irregularly-placed buildings of a city spread like a welcome fanfare before him. The shivering fabric clinging to him shivered back against his body with the strength of the wind's wrath fuelling it. This figure grinned to himself, the twisted innocence of his sixteen years playing through this simple positive expression. His mind was half a world away, buried in concerns and plans he should not have had to experience or invent in this half of his youth, when a voice from inside the boat's cockpit jolted him back to the present.
"We will be arriving in Domino city in a couple of minutes, master Marik," the voice informed him and when he turned around to face the speaker, his gaze fixed on another cloaked figure with the same trademark dark skin as he, but with features such as the tattoo streaking the right side of his face which showed that just like his little 'master', their childhood was better left unexplored.
"Excellent," Marik replied, his strong voice somehow condescending. An extra-strong gust of sea breeze forced the cloak's fabric to peel back from the object he clutched across his chest, and it was finally revealed to be some sort of horned ball, mounted on the top of a regal solid gold stick. The spray from the unearthed water greedily misted it's gleaming surface, formerly the only dry thing on his outer person.
As the boat's hull bumped the side of the docks with the lightest of kisses, the breeze picked up speed and tugged the hood previously obscuring Marik's long, straggly blond hair clear off his head and he turned to the shore as it flopped lifelessly against his shoulders. He grasped the metal railings around the side of the boat and vaulted down onto the concrete of the dock gangway, slightly nauseous after the long journey but not about to admit it.
The other cloaked figure appeared by his side, pulling a heavy rope to secure the boat with.
"I must get going if I am to put my plan into effect," the impatient teenager informed him, already with the sodden cloak halfway over his head. He really hadn't noticed how wet the spray on the breeze had been at the time, and although he had planned on arriving in style wearing it, that dream had been shattered along with his comfort. Wet clothes was one of this teenager's pet hates, having grown up in the sweltering darkness of an Egyptian tomb his whole life.
"Here is your bike, Master," the other figure gasped, now hauling an enormous motorcycle over the railings after him with two strong arms. The young teenager smiled as it was laid before him, having struggled out of the limp wet bundle of navy cloth on the ground. Another of his pet hates happened to be folding things or even neatly storing them once he was not wearing them, so this cloak was fated to stay there until such time as the servant of this bossy little boy (or indeed anyone else) were to remove it. He inserted the gold rod's shaft down in between his belt and his white jeans, only for a place to put it while not having to grasp it, if anything else.
"Now, I shouldn't be too long, you know the plan. Don't you, Odeon?" he asked, now fitting a helmet that had been conveniently dangling from the handlebars of his bike over his blond head and fastening it under his chin.
"Yes, master, I shall do as you have commanded," he replied, deeply. Marik swung his leg across the motorcycle and forced his weight against the kick start. The metal monster roared awake beneath him, and purred gently almost in welcome to it's little rider, ready to be manipulated at any time- at the very beck and call of the haughty little teenager.
"See you later," he could not help but add, betraying that this 'servant' Odeon could have been just a little more important to him than just a slave, by rights. And then he wasted no time in hitting the highway, not even tossing a friendly look backwards as he roared off, the little rebel tomb-keeper with the obligatory metaphorical winds of change caressing his tanned skin. He was forced to marvel at just how free he felt again, now… it was an involuntary emotion that seemed to creep all over him the second he took to the road, his gleaming mount obeying his every touch… he could do anything, his metal steed and he…
He even enjoyed the harsh bite of the chilling air, the roar of the avid engines, the vibration of the leather between his thighs…………………
In a fit of joy, Marik yanked at the handlebars and revved it's engine, the front wheel rearing up as he entered a back alley of the city. Relying on his own balance and strength to avoid colliding with the opposite wall, he turned expertly on the back wheel of his steed and had just guided it back onto both wheels when a small, white- haired figure darted right into his path, his arms outstretched as if to prevent him passage, shouting "Stop!!!". Although the following seemed unusual considering Marik's skill with this machine, he swerved desperately.
There was the desolate whine of tyres and tar, the smell of burnt rubber and an awful yelp following, and soon the roaring engine heaved back to a purr, it's back tyre still spinning pathetically, downed by the roadside in the middle of the backwater alley. Two figures lay sprawled in it's presence, one was the shaking teenager who had appeared so cocky only a few seconds prior to this and the other, a beautiful white-haired boy, was lying still beneath the body of Marik's precious metal steed, his sky-blue jacket and striped t-shirt already stained crimson with his spilled blood. And not only his blood, Marik was forced to realise, but his own too. There was a nasty graze right along his jaw which stung, and both his legs ached beneath his weight, which he was forced to bear crawling towards the inanimate figure tucked beneath his motorbike. He could almost hear the hot adrenaline spreading through his veins, his wildly thumping heart reminding him he was still alive.
"H..hello?" he gasped, discovering another place he was injured, as an overwhelming pain dug into his chest when he forced words, causing him to gasp a little. The figure trapped beneath the bike did not reply in any sense, not even with a twitch of movement. Marik crept slowly closer. He spotted the gleaming gold rod lying abandoned about a metre to his left, too far for him to crawl unassisted. So instead he satisfied himself with inching tediously towards the boy who'd forced him to crash.
"A…are you okay? Who… who.." there was just no way he could force the rest of his inquiry from his injured lungs, and instead the only thing he could manage to do was to collapse heavily against the stranger's oddly soft, comfortable chest, readying his strength to relieve the stress on the pale-skinned boy's legs and lower body. (This 'comfortableness' may have had something more to do with a few more shattered ribs than Marik happened to realise at the time.) And after a second of deep, shaky breaths, he slammed his shoulder into his beloved, softly purring steed, forcing it to tumble several inches off it's prey and across the tarmac, releasing this injured boy reluctantly. Everything was swimming in an unkind haze before Marik's pale eyes, beckoning him to dangerous slumber he may be lucky to awake from, the same desolate sleep which had calmed this injured figure beneath him. Was the blood-stained teenager he was propping himself on even still alive? There was very little ways he could determine this with minimal movement on his part, so from where he currently was lying, stretched out uncomfortable and diagonally across his stomach, the only thing he could do was to brace himself on both hands and dip his head towards his pale, blood-stained neck, listening for breath. If there was, it was minimal, and the demon of sleep cloaking his consciousness became ever more insistent.
Eventually, he reached out and brushed the kid's beautiful white hair from his handsome, blank face and lowered his head until his nose rested against the other's cheek. His shoulders threatened to release his weight, but he fought desperately against collapsing. And as he concentrated on his own heaving breaths and shivering limbs, it was only then that the very weak, rapid, shallow heat of the boy's breath against his face became in any way apparent. He was still alive- but for how much longer? In fact, how much longer could he stay above the iron waters of death? A warmth on his left hand alerted him to the hot sticky river of blood pooling around his fingers, seeping out through the underside of his victim's back.
"Oh hells," he muttered with a wince and then it was almost as if a pillow was put over his eyes and ears. He collapsed instantaneously against the stranger, as his whole consciousness drained from his own mind, and mixed with the hot pool of blood framing both of their bodies. The unfortunate boy lying barely alive beneath him now was forced to act as a cushion, shielding his own broken ribs from the cold rigid tarmac.
The bike still purred sadly from where it lay in the corner between two warehouses. The only other thing that disturbed the silence of the backdrop apart from the whimpering motor, was the slow and steady drip of the blood spilling from the pulsing cut lining Marik's collar bone against Ryou Bakura's neck, the unfortunate but intentioned victim of this collision.
It seemed that the scheming spirit of the millennium ring had not accounted for this when he decided to run out in the path of oncoming millennium items!
A/n: Right! (Is "intentioned" even an appropriate word for that??)
There's the start of my first Yaoi-pairing story! Tell me if you like, please. Because there's plenty more where that came from. And if you think I should write the duels, since they'll have to take place a lot differently than in the anime now, tell me... And if you didn't like, don't flame, tell me why nicely. I need the feedback since this type of thing is my specialty when i get going....