Dear children, start fires. They're pretty.
I'm going to make this a two-shot. With the second chapter being stupid shit in Bakura's point of view...But I may abandon it. I suck at commitments.
And my ability to write Malik and Bakura in character sucks. But I kind of like them this way~
I will set this fucking bed on fire.
I will tie your arms together with that leather rope around your neck. I will smash your face in with the golden artifact that holds your life inside of its sharp metallic hands. I will slice you open with its pointed spears.
I will kill you. Burn you. Carve a prophecy into your back, just so you know how it feels.
You know what pain feels like because you've seen it. Seen the people you love die. Seen the people you need to kill be killed. Seen me…at my worst.
You've felt nothing.
And I will kill you, I swear I will. Destroy you. I wanttoneedtohaveto.
Set you on fire, my dear. You look so good in red. Red like those pretty little flames that obliterated your village—killed ninety nine of your closest friends and family, ate them up like the lot of thieves that they were. Red like that crimson regret that stains your immaculate host's ashen head. Red like those pretty little guts you splash against every dark alley that you can get your hands on.
You are such a sadistic bastard. And you smirk, and you know it, and you love it.
And it's comforting. To know where you sleep at night.
It's nice, I think, the way that you press your body—his body, that body, the body. Whatever—against mine.
I'm a liar, and you're a thief, but I can kill you if I want to. And I will, someday.
It's a game and we both know it. You called it "love" once, but you were just trying to cheat. Trying to confuse me—throw me off focus.
But I can see straight through your soft white skin and your soft white hair. Everything about you is so colorless like that. White. White like a straight jacket, white like the walls of an asylum, white like the white that our bed sheets were before the sweat and the blood and the sex.
White like the whitehot center of a fire. The hottest part, where the flame burns brightest. Where I will shove your pretty little host's body, and cremate his fucking corpse. Turn your white, stainless perfection into a dusty black ash. And then smear it across these sheets. These stained, disgusting, dirty, deliciously imperfect sheets that we share night after night. (That is, if they're not charred beyond recognition, as your paleprettyperfect body will be.)
The book of matches jingles around in my pocket as I take step after step. The thin wooden sticks—and how easy would it be to break the little things? Almost as easy as snapping your host's neck…—clash together and sing a sick little song as I walk. I almost wonder why I have an entire little package, I'm only going to need one. Wrap it up in a pretty little box, top it with a white bow. Give you a gasoline bath. Tuck you into bed. Set the whole thing in flames.
You need to burn. Burn hot and fast and red. Burn like you should be—somewhere in Hell. Where you belong after 3,000 long years of sinning and killing. Burn like the crimsonhot tip of a knife, ready to scar and maim and deform and mark for years and years.
You remind me so much of my father that it hurts, Bakura.
Both of you spending your lives chasing after pointless things—be it the return of a nameless Pharaoh or his life in your hands. You crave vengeance for the deaths of those you loved (I never meant to kill my own mother...) You hold that same dark, wicked look in your eyes.
(Neither of you know how to properly hold a sad little boy, crying and broken.)
You both fucking love me, don't you? Love how weak and malleable I am. How easily my skin can be torn and marked and bruised. Disfugired. Mutilated. You're both such fucking sick, evil, dirty bastards.
He died by my hands,
(nonono, it was my dark half...It was the Pharaoh...it wasn't me...)
and you will do the same.