Yami Bakura x Ryou Bakura

'Jesus Christ' by Brand New

Tricks With Mind and Empathy

He's hardy handsome. Not tall enough, not broad enough, not masculine enough. His face is fine-featured, and he's often mistaken for a girl. It insults me, when they mistake me for him, because how can I look like that? I'm taller, sharper. Still not masculine, I suppose, but a far cry from his feminine appearance that matches his personality far too well. He's pale, too, and on me it looks good, although I miss my Egyptian-tan, but on him it makes him look ill. He's got a girly body, too, all smooth skin and no blemishes, no scars, with a slender figure He has feminine hair, and he hides behind the nice-smelling, well brushed folds of his hair, making him look unnoticeable, weak. He doesn't look strong enough to be good looking, either. He looks like he'd fall over if you blew on him.

He's cam though, and thoughtful, and does what he can to help people.

Even the people that don't deserve it, those that throw it back in his face.

Like me.

He's the kind to keep on giving until he has nothing left.

He's the kind to get used by people.

He's like a tidal barrier put out at sea to stop boats being washed away, if you want to get metaphorical about it, a huge blockade that tries to help everyone, because that's what it is meant to do, even if some things do slip through. It's a prop for things about to break, a reassurance for those at the shore who know they might be swept out to sea themselves, one day. He'll just sit there and smile as he constantly has things thrown at him, the things he's trying to rescue. Just sitting there, watching the moon so he can wait out the tides, knowing it's worth all the time and patience and all the misses he's had, because eventually he'll salvage someone from the wreckage they have become, washed up against him.

Jesus Christ, that's a pretty face
The kind you'd find on someone that could save

He's very different to me. There are only a few things I value above myself, rare, special things. Beautiful things that I worked to get, things that command my respect and admiration, and my ownership of them commands the respect back of everyone else. Only a couple of things I'd bother saving, that I'd jump into a fire for, because, for most things, it doesn't matter if they go. He'd revive even the most worthless crap.

Everything angers me. I can't stay calm, even at the simplest things.

I like watching people suffer, and be in pain. It makes me feel slightly less angry at my own life.

I'm not the kind that cares about others.

I don't understand him much, when it comes to some things, one thing in particular. Why he tries to help me. No one can help me anymore, that much should have become obvious to him- it has to everybody else in this world. I've had thousands of years to dwell on everything, all alone with my own mind, chained up, controlled, trapped in a piece of fucking jewellery- any hope of making me a decent person went out of the window when I spent a millennia thinking of ways to wreak my most intricate and bloody revenge on the world.

I didn't want a fucking second chance, but he told me to take it, and so for once in my life I took some one else's advice, because normally the only advice or instruction I'd listen to are mine.

I still can't decide whether it was a good idea or not.

If they don't put me away
It'll be a miracle

Why does he settle for the lesser things, anyway?

He doesn't have to stick around; he could do things for himself, instead of everyone else. He could be selfish, like every other fucking person in the entire world. It wouldn't be difficult: everyone else manages it, right?

Does he ever wish he was?

Does he want to leave, but thinks he can't?

Because if that is his reason, then it is a fucking stupid one.

He could leave, could stop helping. Some people couldn't manage without him for a while, but in the end, everyone would survive.

I can't work out if it would be easier for me if he left.

Do you believe you're missing out?
That everything good is happening somewhere else?

He was alone for a long time. Not nearly as long as I was, of course, but too long for someone that good. Not physically alone, not in a solitary prison, but socially. Mentally, I suppose, if you don't count me- and I guess you wouldn't. Mental is the operative word there. I lived in his head for years, and I've seen what he thinks when there is no one around. I don't understand how he'd still as untainted as he is, but then again, maybe he's as insane as me, in his own special little way. Some say he is, for believing in me.

When I think about it, I find it strange that he's still around.

I guess if I asked him, he'd admit to being surprised as well.

He says that he's less lonely now, because he understands that some people can't use words to explain how they feel. He thinks he knows, without the voices.

With nobody in your bed
The night is hard to get through

I think you'll leave in the end though, just like everyone claims. It will be the long awaited day, the day when everyone is proved right and I get too much for even you to bear on your own, and you'll snap and crash and burn out. You claim you won't, try to make me believe promises that I know you'd like to keep, but no one can stay that long with some one like me. I just can't bring myself to believe that you'll always be here: if there is one thing I have learned, it is that everything, every last fucking thing is as transient as the wind. You can't stay forever. Nothing ever does.

I can barely remember not being as angry as I am, as crazed as I am. I reflect in a state of almost sanity on occasion, like now, but the blackness of my mind will soon take over again. That's the way, I suppose, that is has to be.

I am sure no one can save me.

In a way I don't want to be saved. What merit is there in sanity, in toil, in goodness? Everyone ends up broken, one way in the other. Dead after a life of hard labour, or lifeless after too much of it.

You'll break and leave, before I break and admit to caring.

And I will die all alone
And when I arrive I won't know anyone

I thought that I'd have had revenge by now, that I'd have somehow compensated for the deaths of my family. I thought I'd have something to make it all feel better, make all the bad things seem like a figment of a dream. I thought it would have been made worthwhile, that I could have found peace.

But I haven't.

No, I've just slipped further into insanity, further into hopelessness. The Pharaoh seems so much better than me, even though he spent just as long as I did in a fucking necklace. How did he manage, and how did he retain so much of his sanity?

How is he still able to love so much, with no abandon?

How is it fair, that our thousands-of-years wait did not affect us the same?

But then, how is any of this fair, on any of us? None of us asked for this, for an extended future or to have spirits live in the minds of the futures children. We didn't ask for it. My family didn't ask for it. The future didn't ask for it, and by Osiris, Ryou didn't ask for it.

Well, Jesus Christ, I'm alone again
So what did you do those three days you were dead?

But he, my little light, says that even though he didn't ask for it, he's glad it happened. He's glad that he's had a life that he knows he's had to work for, because now it is all better it makes him appreciate it more, and now, because of all the bad- and I know that I'm included in that- he believes in happiness more than ever before, that it will come to us all in the end. He smiles up at me as he says this, and I feel trapped by it, like it's a spider-web thin rope he's throwing me, and the second I touch it, it will become something I won't be able to let go of again.

I'm starting to worry that I might, one day, feel the same.

He tells me to let go of the revenge, but it's not something I want to do.

That would be too easy.

I'm in too deep in this whole thing, dragged into a future I never wanted or believed would exist. If I'd had my way, this would be an entirely different world. It would be mine, and it would be perfect, or at least, perfect in my eyes. Nothing would exist if I didn't want it to, and I would be content. At least, I think I would.

But I will never find out whether I would or not: that's not going to happen now.

Because this problem is gonna last
More than the weekend

My light keeps telling me about how he believes in this 'heaven' and 'hell' and 'single god' religion. It's quite different to what we believed back in Egypt, before this time, very different indeed. We had a myriad of gods and the current pharaoh was one, just the same. It was all so much easier to believe in, too: our gods did not die for us, we died for them, and surely that is how it should be? Gods are not benevolent, benign and all-loving: they are wrathful, vengeful, filled with an anger which we mortals cannot understand about what we do that offends them so.

The gods are all powerful, mortals should bow to them, because gods are untouched by time and famine and disease, and they will live in eternal splendour. Why should they sacrifice that for us?

Things do not happen for a reason of the gods. Things in this world happen for the reason of man.

I don't understand his resolute belief, as well- surely after everything that's happened to him, after all the magic that has been placed before him, he must have some doubt? He must know that there are things done through him- by me- that could condemn him? He just smiles at me, when I ask, and says that he knows we will both be spared. How can he have no uncertainty?

I do.

I'm not sure what to believe in anymore.

But I know that when we die, he'll be going to a different place that where I will be going. I don't care if he thinks that I'll be forgiven: I know for a fact that I won't be.

I'm not looking forward to that.

Well, Jesus Christ I'm not scared to die
But I'm a little bit scared of what comes after
Do I get the gold chariot? Do I float through the ceiling?

So what do I do, my little light? Do I leave now, and make your life a little better? Should I take off, flee in the night like I have done so many times before, take away some of these shadows that are wreathed around you? Do I do the first selfless thing I have ever done, and go? You'd be better off without me, I know that.

You can't cope with me forever.

You'll break.

I'll break you, even though I don't suppose I really want to anymore. I'd leave, but I don't want to see you sad.

I've seen enough grief in my life.

I don't know why I'm even considering it, really. It's a stupid thing to think about doing, because I am far, far, far too selfish. There is no altruism within the burning fires of my soul. I don't think I could ever truly forget you, or even function properly without you, not after so very long. Sure, I'd be just as crazed and angry, perhaps more so, that much is a given, but I'd take it out on more people, including myself, and you wouldn't like that, which would make me despise myself more.

No, I'm too selfish to leave.

Do I divide and pull apart,
'Cause my bright is too slight to hold back all my dark

I thought that I would never care for anything again when my village was slaughtered. It didn't take me long to realise that was wrong- I soon had a new family, one that made me fiercer than any mortal family could have done.

Revenge nursed me, and became my mother. It laid me against its warmth and sung me lullabies of slaughter and making her proud. It fed me when there was nothing else to live for and it was back to her I turned when I was hurt. When I wanted something, I turned to her, and she helped me out of corners where I would have buckled otherwise. She was a looming shadow of a dark crimson that followed me wherever I went, and I was glad of it.

My father, suspicion, taught me the ways of the world. He lectured me on the deprivation of people's truth, and how I could trust none of it. He protected me from the harder blows of the world by showing me how to get out of them, and he told me off when I'd done it wrong, when I'd listened to someone that I shouldn't have. I could see him there in the dark blue of my own shadow on the sand, and when I saw him there, I remembered all I had to.

Brother Bloodlust was my constant childhood companion. We played with fire and sharp edges, and he got me into situations I probably should have stayed out of. He laughed about it afterwards though, because in our upbringing, the scars were something to be proud of, because you could remember with them the same way others remembered with ink on papyrus. These lines and slashes were my hieroglyphics, showing me my history and what I had to go back to when I was stronger, to show them they had made a mistake. I remembered him in the dark brown of dried blood that incrusted itself around my nails and wouldn't come off, and when I saw it, I would smile.

My new family looked out for me, smiling with teeth stained with blood, but they were not the only ones I listened to, either. They were my family, but a child needs more than that, right?

The ghosts of those I once knew watched over me, bitter at their untimely demise. They would cry and rage my mind, and they were my teachers, some ruthless, some kind, all trying to teach my lessons. They showed me the past, the present, and they taught me what the future would hold, too. They taught me what my family could not: why I was left on the sand, alone but alive still, left to carry on the memory and make it all better for everyone. To rise from the ashes like a bird of flame. I knew they were there when I looked up in the night and saw the slink of something I had just missed out of the corner of my eye.

Gold called to me as a lover would call it's other half to bed. It lured me and tempted me and warmed my soul at night. It didn't matter what I had done, because it was something I would risk everything for, and my lover appreciated it, it knew how hard I'd worked and it still kept up its elusiveness, its mystery, making me want it even more. I felt it there when I would place my palms across its cool smoothness, and remember the warmth that lay within it.

I thought I would need nothing more.

I thought I would never care for one of the flesh again.

Then, just as I thought I was safe from emotions, I bothered listening to you.

Oh, little landlord.

If you only knew how red my hands are with the blood I've spilled, stained a colour that will never rub off, never be seen, never be gone.

If you only knew how you've become one of my menagerie of those I care for- Revenge, Suspicion, Bloodlust, Ghosts, Gold- and you.

I bet you'd feel special.

This ship went down in sight of land
And at the gates, does Thomas ask to see my hands?

What really fucks with my head is that I didn't even expect you. You just came, smiled, and gave me every-fucking-thing when I demanded it. You crept into my mind- you, in your own way, are as good as me when it comes to breaking-and-entering. Not that I'll ever tell you that. I'll never tell you anything that goes on in my sick and warped mind.

You'll never know, my foolish little light.

Because I could never tell you.

If you asked, I'd lie.

I'm not averse to lying to anyone, you understand that? It's me against the world. The only person I'd put behind me in a fight, the only living person of flesh and blood I'd spill my own blood for, is lying next to me, sleeping, as I stare at the ceiling, thinking all of this fucking crap.

Yeah, that's right. It's you.

I know you're coming in the night like a thief
But I've had some time alone to hone my lying technique

I've established that I can't leave you now. So you should leave me, go, and live a happy life. You should find someone that can tell you that they care for you and would give you all that they have, and would make you happy. When I would come to the door, you would just smile and sweet little smile of regret and sorrow, and close it in my face, before turning into the arms of someone who would love you without strings attached, without baggage that would clutter up the rooms.

I can't give you everything I have. There is so little left, and I don't want to give you the bad stuff. And I don't know whether I can separate the bad from the good by myself, because most of the time I can't tell the difference.

I've warned you- I can't deal with emotions like these. I don't even fucking know what these emotions are.

You shouldn't believe in me, believe that I'm a good person at heart, because I'm not. I'm a twisted bitter soul, and though I would never admit it, I'm afraid to hurt you.

It would hurt me, in the long run.

I know you think that I'm someone you can trust
But I'm scared I'll get scared and I swear I'll try to nail you back up

If I rolled onto my side, I could look right at your face. I could see the defined cheekbones, the fine-features, the shadow that his eyelashes cast below your eyes and the small parting between your lips. The reddened marks on your otherwise pale throat that I made myself.

I turn my face over.

He's lying on his front, face turned sideways, towards me. His hair falls messily over his bare shoulders, and his skin glows even paler in the moonlight streaming in from the window. It was that light that woke me up in the first place.

How ironic is that? Different lights, both bringing me to my senses.

He's been crying in his sleep again, yet another nightmare I suppose, but he's stopped now. He always was such a cry baby. The tear tracks are still there, glowing almost like scar-tissue in the dim light.

Some things never leave a person.

I know I couldn't leave you.

Can I find a way to show you that the small, human part of me aches for you to feed it, to grow it?

Or do you already know?

My anger yearns for you to calm it, a balm to cool its white-hot frustration. My grief for my family wants your comfort, to sedate it until it rears its head less and less. My pain calls out to you, so you can kiss everything that hurts away.

I can't tell you, of that I'm certain.

But please. Listen a little, and try and read my mind.

Help me, so I won't have to pretend that I don't care for you anymore. So when we lie naked next to each other under warm sheets in the pale moonlight, I don't have to make sure I'm not touching you, so you can get comfort from me, so you don't have to put up with only the short pleasure and a little pain before we sleep when it gets so bad I pull you to my bed every once in a while, help me so you'll know everything.

Then, maybe, I'll be able to kiss the shadowed hollow above your shoulder bone, be able to stoke your hair, be able to pull you towards me when we lie naked under covers late at night, so our warmth can become one and I won't have to try anymore to pretend like I don't care at all.

I don't want to have to strive to lie anymore.

Just take a guess.

We're good at playing games, after all.

So do you think that we could work out a sign?
So I'll know it's you and that it's over
So I won't even try.