The Assassin and The Thief

Chapter 8 - The Plan

(Marik's POV)

It's simple; genius, even. In the middle of the night I'll will arrive at Bakura's place offering different psychedelic drugs laced with liquid heroin. These will be separated into piles - Bakura takes the real ones, I'll take fake ones I prepared earlier. We'll have fun, maybe too much, and my target will eventually fall asleep.

This is more of a mercy for me than anything else. The morbid thought of watching Bakura die, his eyes glaze with dull emptiness. It's a terrible thought. I can honestly say I love the boy, fell head over heels for him, and what happened wasn't his fault. But business is business and Bakura is a target. Once he is out cold, I will place him in the bathtub, run it with hot water and slit his wrists using his own knife, which he will be left holding. It's disgusting and messy, nothing like my others. There's a reason I'm doing it in the dark - not to slip away undetected, but so I don't have to watch Bakura bleed.

I smile bitterly to myself , growling into the emptiness of my hotel room. The only light comes from the street lamps outside and the light pollution of the overcrowded city. Fuck, fuck this. I never signed up for this. Not to kill the only person ever to see me as someone worth being around. He actually invited me to things! Wants to be in my presence.

Then I remember it's not me he likes, but Melvin, a character I created to get out a littering citation when I was fourteen. Someone who barely exists, who's character development has been squashed into the week period since I met my devilishly handsome target. I laugh to myself, but it's a dry laugh without substance in its tone. I must wonder what's wrong with me to have gotten me here. To be honest, I think I'm depressed.

I savour each second before nightfall, pray to each Egyptian God I can to make sunset last a few seconds longer and prolong my anguish, stretching this moment of innocence out forever. But inevitably it grows dark and I dress in my black tank top, black jeans this time, and a purple cape to distort any witness descriptions of me. I close my hotel door for the first time, knowing I'll be on a flight home in less than ten hours, awaiting my huge payday.

*

I arrive at Bakura's flat and knock the door. He doesn't open it, but I can hear muffled from inside. Strange. What could be happening? I push slightly and the door opens easily. I walk in, and it's dark here too - his overhead bulb keeps flickering. "Kura?" I call out, turning into his sitting room.

I see something horrific. A tall man towers over Bakura, gripping his jaw in an iron vice with one hand, violently beating him with a steel baseball bat with the other. A barrage of blows connect to his hips, and blood pools from his pelvis and between crushed ribs. I watch, almost in slow motion, as the hand on his jawline slides down to his neck, squeezing just as hard.

"Try an' rip me off me will ya?!" The man demands. "Nobody makes a fool of Bandit Keith!"

Bakura's eyes roll back into his head, sharp breaths getting fewer and farther between. I watch him die, and as I do, I'm overwhelmed with a sense of vitriol. Rage boils inside of me as I think of the young man, how my heart bursts open to give him the lifeblood of my soul. I scream, running forward and ripping Keith off my target - oh who the fuck am I kidding? - and throw him against the floor.

He's much bigger and taller than me, but I have the advantage of quick wit and my sick love of fighting dirty. I step on his neck with my heavy boots, keep banging and banging my foot down as bruises sweep under my boot. Before me eyes, he loses his life. It's not something profound or life changing or whatever. I've seen enough lowlife trash die, he's nothing special. Once he's completely gone, transcended to the great big Labour Day parade in the sky, I kick his heavy corpse to one side.

I look down to Bakura, who's looking terrified up at me. His face is broken and body bleeding, but his eyes still carry that melancholic radiance I fell in love with. I've hurt him and feel so embarrassed and ashamed that I caused him any kind of distress, I burst into violent sobs.

(Bakura's POV)

All I can feel is panic. The world seems to speed up, patterns and colours swirling before my eyes, menacingly growing closer. Blood and blood and blood. That's all I know, all I register. Four minutes ago I was happily watching reruns of Top Gear, when Bandit Keith bust through my door accusing me of ripping him off. I did, but I was careful. He couldn't have known. Anyway, he started knocking me around. I've taken my fair share of beatings, and honestly welcome the possibility of death.

Whenever I'm in that situation I provoke. I don't know why but I do. Like I wanna stir up drama, rather curse the darkness than turn on a light. But I got mouthy and out came the steel bat. So much blood.

Then Melvin came, and saved me. Saved me, and now there's a cursor in my floor and Melvin looks so pleased and happy. His eyes gleam with delight and pleasure. Some twisted desire coming out like...this. Like a different person, I cower from his ruthless tendencies.

Until he starts to cry.

Crying has always been for forte. The weak one, the sad one who needed his big brother Akefia to comfort him when he was upset. Well now he's crying with nobody to comfort him but me. And no matter what, a crying person deserved to be comforted. So I comfort him in the only way I know how, cause I'm bad with words. I stand up and wrap him in a loving hug, squeezing the larger man tightly in my arms.

"I-I love you," I hear him utter between racking wails.

And everything turns to blood again.