"Do you believe in innocence?"
His question surprises me. He's been quiet as usual, because Malik Ishtar's dark half only speaks when he wants something to say, not to fill the silence. The silence I appreciate. It's not like him to be this considerate, he can be a real pest if he wants to. The unpredictability of our... 'relationship' is what would kill others, but it makes me feel comfortable, for some reason. I tilt my head.
"What makes you wonder that?"
He hates it when I question his question, and I can see those strange, mesmerizing pupil-less eyes frown. I never tell him how beautiful he really is, with that dark tan, that contrasting gold, cool and luxurious resting so close against his flawless skin... well, except for his back. He parts his lips again, and I expect a flow of expletives, as there's very little subtlety in his choice of words. But he surprises me again.
"Well, do you?"
It makes me wonder why he asks this. He never shows interest in another person's feelings, emotions or thoughts - why would he, as he's born from complete hatred and darkness?
"No, I don't." I'm not in the mood for games, not in the mood to bait him. He seems to be satisfied with my answer and goes about his business, which is flipping through some kind of magazine, that Malik himself has probably given him. I'm not sure how their light and dark goes together, it's certainly a very different dynamic from me and my own 'light'... as if Bakura Ryou is such a light, such innocence in itself. Hell no.
My own innocence came to a halt when I saw my entire village murdered. Slaughtered and processed into golden Items. Yes, I'm aware of the irony of wearing one of those golden Items as I speak. It's a constant reminder of how many lives were lost, of how cruel people can be, and in my own darkest hours I'll still hear the screams, those agonizing screams when naked flesh was burned and ground. What kind of innocence was there left? Was there any innocence to begin with? I look to my right, at Malik's dark half who's content to call himself Malik as well, calling himself the 'real' Malik, who has rolled onto his side, his back turned to me, lazily leafing through the magazine. I grab the hem of his shirt and yank it up.
"How do you call this? Your belief in innocence?" I snap at him, with more vehemence than I actually intended. He usually revels in pissing me off, but as he looks over his shoulder, I see genuine confusion on his face.
"What? No, of course not. What's gotten into you?"
"It's your stupid fucking question, that's it."
He shrugs. "You didn't need to answer it."
I press my hand against the scarred skin. Generations of Ishtars have suffered this ritual, of carrying the Pharaoh's memories on their backs, carved into them with a hot blade. I can't imagine the pain that had to go with it; it's not like it's just one carving, it's his entire back, top to bottom, hieroglyphs and images and all. I can understand the pain and rage Malik went through, and why he developed another personality, just to deal with this alone. Another personality in existence, who has become a plague to his family, reminding him everyday of what he lost and how much he suffered.
"I don't mind it," he says.
"Of course not, you were created because of this." I press a little harder, even if I don't know why. I can't hurt him. I can beat the hell out of him, and he'll just laugh at me and ask for more, if he doesn't unleash his own rage. And he's fucking strong to boot, so I rather not provoke him. I prefer the silence and the shadows, not the screams and the suffering. "But how about your shujinkaku-sama?"
"Malik? Oh, of course his innocence was killed that day," he says matter-of-factly. "The moment his father put that knife into his skin, everything was killed. His compassion, his empathy, his love... everything. It was delicious."
"Asshole," I say. He chuckles.
"You're the one to talk. You killed your own innocence, Bakura."
That's the third time that he surprises me, and now I get pissed. "What's with the mystery talk? Say what you want to say!"
"Your yadonushi-sama." He tosses the magazine to the floor and all but shirks against my hand. "Poor little Bakura Ryou."
"Do you think I corrupted him?" I bark a short laugh.
"Well, you never did leave him alone, did you?"
I hit him against his back, as if I can split open those old scars, break his skin and draw out blood. It's fruitless of course, he doesn't even hiss or moan. "It's not my fault that the Ring ended up in his hands."
"Come on." He looks over his shoulder again, a grin tugging at his lips. "It's not like you to wallow in this kind of 'innocence', Bakura. Or do you believe it was fate?"
"What's your problem?" I say, keeping my voice under control, albeit it takes me some effort. "And stop shrugging."
"You're the one reacting like this," he says. "I don't know. I don't know how my mind works. I only forget."
"Then forget about this," I tell him and pull his shirt back down. Not that I mind the view, but the scars are upsetting me. They remind me of a time, of another thief, who once was a kid and who once watched his entire family getting killed. I touch my cheek, but my scar isn't there. It's only on my soul, where no one can see it or question it. Not even the dark half who knows nothing but pain and hatred.