Title: The Red Fetish.
Characters: Thief King Bakura, Malik (slight Thief King Bakura/Malik).
Prompt: 011 – Red.
Word Count: 914.
Rating: G (No blood or anything like that, don't worry).
Summary: Malik loves the colour red, as Bakura finds out first hand.
Author's Notes: I started and finished this late at night, so it might not make much sense. I think I'm getting better with the characters, but I'm not quite where I want to be yet. So it's not my best quality, but I tried. It's kind of long-winded and rambled, I apologize.
Also, they're all living in Domino. The Ishtars magically moved back for some reason. And Thief King's in the present time. Just go with it, all right?
Dedication: This is dedicated to the amazing Hanna (Sierra's Darkness on Fanfiction) for her amazing Citronshipping stories. If you haven't read them, where have you been all this time?
Also, a big thank you to Aramis-chan, for giving my first review and watch on these stories! I very much appreciate it, and I'm so happy that you've enjoyed them so far!
Malik had always loved the colour red, of any shade or hue. To him, it was warmth, it was strength; it was an unforgettable and inerasable mark on his life. Red was death, life, and everything in between.
Although he felt so strongly of the colour, he kept it a secret to the world. The only possession that he indulged himself in was his motorcycle, coloured a rich ruby. It was his escape to a world of decadence, a place no one could reach him.
He had thought nothing could make him as fulfilled and happy as the crimson colour, nothing could possibly come between him and his love of deep magentas and bright scarlets. He thought he had everything he needed with his bike, and he needed nothing more.
That is, until he met him.
The King of Thieves, as he had called himself, had adapted better than any had expected to the modern world, even go so far as to wear more up-to-date clothing. But the one thing he would not hang up or stuff inside of a closet for all the world was his red cloak. He had been questioned about it numerous times, but only answered with a scowl and a growled reply of, "It is none of your business what I choose to wear."
Of course, even Bakura himself didn't know exactly why he kept the old thing. The stains and minor rips were beginning to multiply as the years went on - accented by the fact the item was well over three thousand years old. Every person of the modern world told him it was better to get rid of the old thing, as it was most likely crawling with disease; he had washed it several times by hand, however, and found that unlikely. But still the people had protested to him to discard the old thing.
That is, every person except one.
Malik had found that since the tomb robber had began living with him and his sister - as no one else would take him in on account of his accused state of insanity -, he had been staring at that old and ratty piece of cloth around the thief's shoulders more and more. He had noticed that all of the other Ancient Egyptian garments had been tossed aside and forgotten, but this marvelous spin of silk would not leave his side.
It irritated and fixated him all at once. He could not stop thinking of the cloak, and in turn continued thinking of the white-haired villain it adorned. He thought at first it was only the deep crimson cloak he was after, but a certain event had shown him otherwise.
At one point Bakura had indeed been planning to throw out the old coat and acquire a modern one, but a certain flaxen-haired boy seemed to convince him to keep, almost cherish, the item.
It had been a few weeks after he had moved in with the Ishtars that he threw the cloak upon his bed and left to find a more appropriate dress robe for his new environment. It was at that point that Malik had walked into the room, only there to pick up the thief's laundry, and noticed the apparel upon the bed. His eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat at the sight.
Abandoning his better judgment, Malik found himself stepping to the tomb robber's bed, reaching out to gently finger the softly woven fabric. Before his mind could comprehend what his hands were doing, he had picked up the cloak and wrapped it in his arms, hugging it close to his chest. He held it for a long while, closing his eyes and relishing in the moment he had been waiting for since first laying his eyes on the magnificent piece of clothing. But, little by little, Malik set the cloak down, realization dawning on him. Of course he was happy to be able to have the lovely red item so close to him, but it wasn't as amazing as he thought it would be. It was missing something for his to hold along with the veil; a certain white-haired something.
Blushing furiously, Malik tore away from his thoughts, setting the cloak back down and exiting the room as quickly as possible. What he didn't notice as he was retreating back to the laundry room, was that the aforementioned white-headed something was heading down the hallway, in the opposite direction of Malik.
Bakura came back into his room, a new cream winter coat draped across his shoulders – from a bout of thieving, no doubt. He reached toward his old tattered cloak, ready to toss it into the trash when he noticed it was in a different place on the bed than he left it. Reaching out to grab it, he noticed it was radiating warmth, and, taking in a deep breath, noticed an exotic and spicy smell that was not his, but distinctly someone. It was distinctly the smell of a boy with amazing violet eyes and golden hair. A strange look came over the thief's face; not a smirk nor frown, but something in between the two.
Without a second though Bakura took off his new cream coat and tossed it out of the window, draping his old and familiar coat around him. Yet it was new somehow; it had an air of fresh starts and new adventures waiting just ahead for both the cloak had touched.