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Sins of the Flesh	By : NihilEtNemo Category: Yu-Gi-Oh > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 10611 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own YuGiOh!, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1--01-
- 2--02-
- 3--03-
- 4--04-
- 5--05-
- 6--06-
- 7--07-
- 8--08-
- 9--09-
- 10--10-
- 11--11-
- 12--12-
- 13--13-
- 14--14-
- 15--15-
- 16--16-
- 17--17-
- 18--18-
- 15
- 16
- 17
A/N: Two in one week! Wow, I'd better watch out, I might actually start being active again... It's a short one, but it gets its point across. I didn't want to go on, because that would make this part less important...

Dragon! Thanks for your review! I'm glad you like my story ^~^ For you, I now go to start hapter seventeen!

Sins of the Flesh

- 16 -

There were reporters waiting when they got off the plane.

Bakura couldn't see them from the terminal, but the call Seto got
from Mokuba and the grim set of his face could mean only one of a
handful of things, and that was what he was betting on.

“You gonna tell me?” he asked, leaning against he wall
with his arms crossed, after Seto had been glaring at a point in
space for several minutes.

“Reporters,” Seto said tersely, and Bakura gave
himself ten points.

“So it's time to go,” he said with a shrug. “You've
been practicing for this reason. If we give them enough now they
should go away and leave us the fuck alone, right?”

He watched Seto straighten his shoulders and take a breath. “Don't
say anything, don't look at them, don't respond to their questions,
just get to the car,” he said. “Don't touch me, don't
show them anything they don't need to know, don't do anything that
can be interpreted in any way.”

“Am I allowed to breathe?” he asked dryly.

“At a normal rate and depth, so long as it doesn't involve
making words or otherwise reveal anything we don't want them to
know.”

All he could do was stare at him.

“Let's go,” Seto said, and turned away. After a second
of staring at the back of his head, and then letting his eyes wander
down the sleek muscles of his back and his tight ass – niiiice
– he pushed himself off the wall and followed.

The followed the throngs of other passengers from the terminal.
Before they could move more than a foot into the crowd a small ball
of energy attached itself to Seto's waist; he realized it was Mokuba
after Seto ruffled his hair lightly.

“Hi,” Mokuba said, detaching himself, looking at both
of them for a second, before turning his businesslike grey eyes to
his brother. “We tried to suppress it, but they couldn't be
bought; this showed on Friday after you left.” He lifted the
paper that seemed to appear in his hand and handed it to Seto.

Seto's lips pressed into a thin line, but he just held the paper.
Bakura rolled his eyes when he got tired of waiting and moved behind
his arm. He wished he wouldn't wear those damn boots, they made him
too tall...

It turned out to be a photocopy of what Bakura took to be a
newspaper, until the headline proved it was actually a trashy
tabloid. It was a picture of the two or them, in their school
uniforms, him holding Seto tight to his chest. He tried to remember
when it was taken; was that one of he thousands of 'I'm not going to
hurt you so loosen the fuck up' times? Probably.

“They're a little behind the times,” he said, and held
up his left hand, and the prominently displayed wedding band. He'd
spent three damned weeks working for these things, even if Seto had
apparently forgotten that he demanded he do so. “It's not going
to be big news by this time tomorrow.

Mokuba looked at him coldly, then took the paper back. Obviously,
the brat still hated him. He'd deal with it. It was Seto he needed to
win over first, not Mokuba. That would be a big enough challenge.

“Let's go,” Seto said, and Mokuba nodded and ran off
again. Frankly, he was surprised Seto let him out of his sight, but
obviously he trusted him not to get lost or kidnapped... against all
reason, honestly, given how many times the boy had been
kidnapped. Including by Bakura himself. Ah, fun times...

Seto started walking, and Bakura fell
into step behind him. Sure enough, there was a throng of reporters
not three minutes later, flashing pictures and yelling questions. As
soon as they were well within sight, Bakura closed the gap and
wrapped his arm around Seto's waist, pulling him close to him. He
barely tensed; Seto looked at him quickly, but kept walking. He
didn't return any sign of affection, but that would have been far
more than he could have hoped for, anyway. It was enough that he
didn't shove him away and blow the cover immediately.

He grinned fangily at the reporters and
made it clear with his body language that Seto was his – even
though the fact was that he wasn't his, and might never be his –
and ignored Seto's orders completely. Trying to hide something this
harmless from the reporters was just control-freak idiocy. He wasn't
about to tell anyone about Seto's past, of course, but it should be
known that they were married anyway. That was the point.

One question jumped out through the
chatter to him. “What's your boyfriend's name?” one
reporter yelled.

He stopped, holding Seto's hand to stop
him, and looked at the crowd. “My name is Bakura, and I'm his
husband,” he informed them all loudly, showing the ring
off to the snapping of cameras.

Seto squeezed his hand in a less than
friendly manner and pulled him roughly through the crowd. He managed
to make it look like his husband was just hurrying him along until
they slid into the limo, where Mokuba was already waiting.

He wrapped his arms around Seto as the
door shut behind them and the car pulled away, but the brunet
shrugged him off and twisted to deliver some weird martial arts blow
to his throat. He choked, oxygen completely refusing to enter his
lungs.

“I said not to touch me,” Seto all but snarled. “And
I told you not to tell them anything! Now they all know, because of
you!”

He couldn't answer. He still held his
throat, struggling fruitlessly to breathe, feeling his face growing
hot.

“Are you happy with yourself? For a thief, you don't have
any idea what 'secrecy' is, do you?”

From the seat across from them, Mokuba
looked back and forth between them. “Seto, fix him,” he
finally said quickly. “He's your husband now, he can't just
disappear...”

Seto scowled, then yanked his hands
away and hit him in the throat again. Bakura immediately collapsed
against the seat, gasping gratefully as sweet recycled air flooded
his deprived lungs. That motherfucking bastard...

With a growl, he lunged toward Seto and
wrapped his hands around his throat, shoving him back into the door.
He could feel Seto's hands on him, pulling and pushing and there
would be some damage to him, but he literally saw red. His only goal
was to make him pay for hurting him...

“Stop it!” That was Mokuba screaming, and it was
Mokuba who pried him off with his small hands digging into his eyes
from behind. He let go of Seto for a second to rip the brat off and
Mokuba managed to shove him off the seat.

“You're going to hurt the baby!” Mokuba told him,
sitting on top of Seto and firmly pinning his hands underneath him.
He could almost see Seto's eyes smoldering as he looked over his
brother at him. Bakura could see that bruises were already forming on
his neck, even from his place panting on the floor with his head
propped at an awkward angle against the facing seat, and he focused
on the justified gladness and not the strange niggling... guilt, was
what Ryou called it. He didn't like guilt. It felt funny.

“Seto,” Mokuba went on, “you know that everyone
had to find out. And you...” Fiery grey eyes settled
unforgivingly on him. “You don't get to hit Seto back, ever,
not after what you did.”

Bakura growled again, smothering that
guilty-thing, and climbed to his knees and then to a mostly-standing
position that was the best the car afforded. “Listen, you
little fucking brat-”

“Sit. Down.”

Seto's words froze the nitrogen in the
air, and Bakura sat. Not because Seto told him to, though. It was
only because there wasn't room to stand.

“Don't ever do anything that could hurt the baby again,”
Mokuba said. “Either of you.” His eyes didn't leave
Bakura, though, no matter whom he claimed the warning was directed
toward.

A growl emanated from low in his
throat, but Seto's frostbitten stare made him fall quiet, and the
rest of the drive was spent in unfriendly silence. He only stared
smolderingly back at Seto, watching him. Right now he was reminded a
lot of Ryou – beautiful, and he wanted to beat the living shit
out of him. He had dared raise a hand against him...

Why did they have to come back? Things
had been going so well yesterday...

And then this morning, again, the cold
shoulder. What the hell was wrong with Seto? Surely these mood swings
weren't normal...

The door was open almost before they
were stopped, and Mokuba slid off his brother's ('sister's?' he
allowed himself to wonder in a moment of spite) lap, freeing Seto to
walk coldly inside without looking over his shoulder. Mokuba only
crossed his arms and waited for him to slide out last, as a servant
grabbed the suitcases.

“Come on; I'll show you to your room.” He turned on
his heel and walked briskly into the mansion.

Bakura followed him silently. They were
going a direction he hadn't yet gone, to the left of the main
entrance and staying on the ground floor. There was a wide hallway
decorated with carefully trimmed plants and replicas of old
paintings, and then a couple turns as their footsteps echoed around
them from the stone – marble? – floors. The was
impeccable but impersonal; the whole effect screamed “guest
room!”. He supposed that made it a guest wing.

“Here.” Mokuba opened an impersonal door to reveal an
impersonal room, with an impersonal bed and an impersonal door on the
far side...

“There's your bathroom,” Mokuba went on, pointing to
the door. “If you're hungry, the cook can make you something;
just pick up the phone and hit '3', and tell the person who answers,
and it'll be delivered. If you need anything for your room, tell me
and I'll arrange it.”

“How about a TV?” he asked dryly, leaning against the
doorway with his arms crossed.

“It's coming tomorrow,” Mokuba said. “Anything
else?”

“...Nothing I can think of. Looks like I'll never have to
leave the room.”

The boy smiled just a little bit. It wasn't a pleasant effect.

He managed to ignore it, and affected bored disinterest. “So
tell me about making people disappear. Does he make a habit of it?”
The offhand way with which Mokuba had said that was the slightest bit
unsettling. The vision of his husband as a casual murderer was
likewise unsettling – because it didn't fit well with his idea
of Seto as big talk and little else – and somehow arousing...

“Sometimes,” Mokuba told him, crossing his arms. “He
used to a lot more. And if you ever lay a hand on my nee-chan again,”
suddenly the boy's eyes were dark and vicious, “he won't get a
chance to make you disappear, because I'll feed you your own guts
until you choke and no one will find your rotten corpse for another
three thousand years or so. Got it?”

He turned away with a snort, dropping his arms and sauntering into
the room. “Whatever you say, brat. Go play with your dollies or
something.”

“I mean it, Bakura,” came the voice from behind him.
“If you hurt him, I will fuck you up.” Then the door
closed and he looked over his shoulder. It was clear – Mokuba
meant every word he said. Dark little kid... He liked it.

Letting out a heavy breath, not quite a sigh, he sat on the edge
of the bed with a gentle bounce and looked around. The walls were
white. Or off-white. Or cream. Or eggshell. Or something else
disgustingly neutral. The carpet – soft under his slippers, but
not too soft, just the right amount of normal firmness to offend and
please no one at all – was a bland beige. The furniture
consisted of a full-sized bed – not too big, not too little,
just the right size for any wandering blonde-headed girls to trespass
and pass out in – with washed out blue covers that your eye
just slid away from and two medium-soft pillows, and a small round
end table with a few drawers down the front for storing knick-knacks
or drug paraphernalia, with a tan-shaded lamp, a digital clock with
blue numbers telling him it was a little past lunch time, and the
more-or-less-white phone (cordless and complicated but traditional
and user-friendly) that Mokuba had mentioned all sharing space on
top, and a long, low dresser with a dozen or so drawers that ran
along the wall with the door in it, a few feet beyond the foot of the
bed, all made of the same pale yellow wood. The only word for the
room was 'neutral'. Or possibly 'brain-melting'.

He wanted to slit his wrists just to see some fucking color.

There was one bright spot. He stood from the bed and wandered to
the dresser, rubbing one hand along the top as he inspected the
single flower sitting in the clear vase, nearly invisible water
climbing a few inches up the stem. It was a pale pink, still pastel
but much better than the rest of the room, with lots of kind of
raggedy petals and a very full bloom. He didn't know what it was (of
course not; what the fuck did he care about flowers?), but at least
it was something. It was the
only personal touch in the room, actually. It showed that Ryou had
been here... Seto and Mokuba sure as hell wouldn't decorate his room,
and he doubted it was normal practice. Doubted severely. Did the
Kaibas even have
guests?

Working on a hunch, he opened one of
the top drawers; sure enough, it was full. Going through them
revealed that Ryou had moved him in completely... Even the bottom
left hand drawer full of porn was intact. One less thing he had to
do...

~Thank you, yandoushi,~ he
said mentally, sitting on the bed again and pulling out the drawers
of the table to rifle through the rest of his belongings.

~For what, yami?~ Ryou
asked innocently, though he could feel the flush of pleasure from
him, just at being acknowledged. His hikari was like a fucking dog...
you kick it and kick it and it still licks your face when you pet it.
Pathetic.

~Making my room reek with your fucking flower, you girly-ass
bitch,~ he snapped irritably.
~Pathetic. Didn't you notice that I moved away
from you and all the stupid shit you do?~

It was satisfying to feel him flinch
through the link. ~I'm sorry, yami... I just thought...~

~That I'd want a reminder of you around? Why? You don't mean
anything to me.~

~I'm sorry,~ he said in
that quiet, defeated voice that was both ultimately satisfying and
further infuriating at the same time. ~It won't happen
again.~

~Good.~ He snapped the
bottommost drawer shut, satisfied that all of his things were
accounted for, and then let out an irritated sigh, falling back on
the bed with his hands behind his head.

Restlessness warred with boredom warred
with further restlessness as he stared at the pale, featureless
ceiling. The overhead light threw annoying highlights across it that
eventually dimmed to the vague brightness that shrouded the room as
they neared the walls. Ryou taking that one thing off his list... had
erased his list. Now he didn't have shit to do.

Hn... Usually taking it out on Ryou
made him feel better. Now he was just bored and annoyed.

It was all Seto's fault...

His thoughts turned toward his new
husband and he sighed wearily. He could see it now... there wouldn't
be any more 'practice', for one. To be honest, he'd be surprised if
he and Seto had a conversation outside of school. This entire
situation had been designed so that he wouldn't have to see Seto, or
more precisely so that Seto wouldn't have to see him. He was married
to him, and he might as well be in China...

He hated it. He didn't know when he'd
decided – maybe yesterday when they finally relaxed and he was
able to hear Seto laugh, or maybe during his flashback when he saw
him cry, again, or maybe when he realized it was impossible –
but he had; he wanted Seto to be his, completely. Not just in body –
been there, done that, got the kid for it – or in name –
been there, done that, still trying to work it out – but
completely. He wanted him to actually want to be with him.

He wanted them to actually be married.

He wouldn't call it love, whatever his
pet bitch said. He just didn't do things halfway; he wanted Seto, and
that was it, and it wasn't going to happen. Seto hated him, would
always hate him, would never have an opportunity to get over hating
him... That was just how it was, now that they were trapped in this
fake marriage. It wouldn't ever be real. Seto wouldn't ever get over
anything, nothing good would come of this, and damn it, he wanted to
kill something because of it.

This day wasn't going well.
- 15
- 16
- 17
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Sins of the Flesh