A knife was held up to Malik’s lips, its sharpened tip poked too close for comfort. “Then let’s fight with the darkness of our souls, I’ll take that Millennium Rod off of your corpse so be it.” Bakura sneered, discontent with Malik’s earlier proposition of helping him kill the pharaoh, his voice echoed in the empty yet trashed alleys of Domino City.

Malik remained unfazed, smirking at his own reflection in the knife. “Darkness of our souls? Are you initiating a shadow game?” The blade bobbed at every word.

“Yes, the rules are simple:” Bakura pulled the knife away and held it firmly in his hand, like he had used it and wasn’t afraid to use it again. It was enough to keep Malik’s eyes on their toes, occasionally shooting a glance at it as he spoke.  “We’ll place this knife in our mouths and use nothing but our mouths and whoever lets go first loses.”

“And what happens to the loser? I wouldn’t want you dead.” His gaze lifted fully toward Bakura.

“If I lose, I’ll take to your proposition.” Bakura stared back at Malik, piercing with resolve. “However, when I win, I’ll take from you your rod.”

Malik crossed his arms with a laugh, “Hah! Did you think that I wouldn’t notice how unfair that is? Either way you’d end up with what you wanted.”

Bakura’s lip twitched, “What do you suppose then?”

“Nothing, it doesn’t matter. Proceed.”

“Tch- You’re wasting my time, are you the type to talk just to talk?” Bakura hissed as he unsheathed the other blade of his double edged ‘sword’ to start the game with. Shadows, dark with depravity, overcame the shadows of the mortal realm. Bakura found solace in the thick heavy smog that weighed on his chest, the darkness had been his home for millennia after all. A soul so intertwined with the shadows transitioning from light to dark was like a corporeal transitioning from a vacuum to atmosphere. Malik did not have a clue who he was challenging.

As their surroundings grew wicked, Malik remained composed, almost eager to start. Bakura was impressed he was able to keep standing in the shadows, but how long would it last? His smile grew devilish, sure of the answer as he put the tip of the blade in the very front of his mouth and beckoned Malik to come closer, which he obliged, not breaking eye contact.

The shadow game had started, both Malik and Bakura had their crooked lips on the dual blade knife, about a foot separated them. Each blade measured at around four inches, more than enough to puncture their throat and bleed out. But it didn’t matter, neither of them wanted to lose.

It began with Bakura itching closer to hold the knife in his teeth. To him, it was the ideal strategy as whoever had the better grip could easily push the knife onto the other player. But Malik wasn’t going to fall for such a simple trick. He quickly caught on to Bakura’s plans and rushed forward abruptly, the blade slicing the corners of Bakura’s mouth. He winced as beads of blood bubbled but still kept the knife in his curled mouth.

Malik grinned from the other side of the knife. “Not so cocky now are you-“ Bakura took the opportunity to fire back the same move Malik used on him while he was too busy gloating. Muffled screams came from his mouth as the knife was a whopping two inches in, lodged deeply in his tongue. Bakura carefully chuckled, reigning in his restored pride. The sight of Malik’s face convulsing and blood leaking onto his soft quivering lips like cherry lipstick gave Bakura a sick rush as he was overcame with the desire to see Malik’s face distort even further, to see those cherry lips pop. He pursed his lips tightly on his side of the blade before pushing again, taking enjoyment with Malik’s eyes throbbing and flaring at the immense, overwhelming pain as tortured sounds vibrated through the steel. A minute in and there looked to be a clear winner.

But Malik was stubborn. Anyone else would’ve dropped the knife then and there, and run to the nearest hospital, dropping any ancient artifact they had with them. But not Malik. His eyes flamed as his brows lasered onto Bakura’s dark, irritating eyes that blended seamlessly with the shadows, yet still somehow shined like imperial topaz being marked by fiery passion, like a jewel being etched with the words ‘do not underestimate me’. Malik bit down at the knife with his front teeth before pulling out his tongue from under the blade, then pushed it to his molars, all before taste of iron could cover his tongue. He lunged forward, too unyielding to give Bakura a moment of triumph. The knife frictioned on Bakura’s lips and stabbed the back of his throat with a squelch, the four inches of blade were fully in.

Bakura’s face contorted into a howling maniacal laugh as specks of blood from the flood landed on Malik’s few inches of the blade that remained untouched, his face twitched and squirmed like a disgusting bug that just won’t die. Malik remained still on the blade, convinced Bakura had met his end. But Malik did not have a clue who he was challenging.

The very instance Malik’s bite faltered; Bakura pushed through with regards to neither of them. The force was so great it created a giant gash in Bakura’s throat, but successfully pushed past Malik’s molars and into his masseter, hitting an artery. Blood gushed rapidly as they both couldn’t see their reflections on the knife anymore, vertigo overwhelming them as they rested on each other’s foreheads to stay standing. Both players had the knife fully in their mouths yet no one had dropped the knife, a predicament to say the least.

All they could do was breathe, their mouths paralyzed in pain. The knife rose up and down on either side in sync with their stuttered breaths, Bakura in particular was coughing up an alarming amount of blood, splats hitting the cement every odd moment. Yet it seemed he was holding up better than Malik as horror encroached his face. He could feel something truly atrocious crawl up to the surface, the pain and blood bringing him back to his days underground, to that day underground. But why? His consciousness was fading, yet Bakura was still standing. The one who hurt him was still standing. Bakura hurt him. Darkness suffocated him as the shadows grew closer to Malik as veins popped from his skin. He hated Bakura, he hated Bakura, he hated Bakura-

He kissed Bakura.

Or rather, their lips touched over the handle. Malik furiously focused onto Bakura’s sultry eyes, determined to keep himself from losing to the shadows, from losing to this feeling of hatred he’d grown so familiar to, even if it meant furthering the knife, even if it meant furthering that very pain, counter-intuitive yet counter-counter-intuitive. It was a moment of stillness, even their blood stopped running. Bakura stared back into Malik’s lavender eyes, sharp like the edges of amethyst, yet intoxicating like methyst. Bakura did not have a clue who he challenged.

And so, he gave in. Bakura cupped Malik’s shaking face into his pale, now anemic hands, and leaned into a knife filled kiss. Bakura lost the shadow game.

While the darkness settled down, Bakura and Malik were tangled around the knife, twisting and turning its blade. The game was over, they could put down the knife at any time, but their desire was something immediate, something they had to relieve now. Their mouths throbbed with wounds, pulsated with pain, but god did they want each other so badly, so painfully. Bakura’s hands drifted from Malik’s face to his shoulders, then trailed down to pull at his toned waist partially shown by his cropped top, (that he’d be lying to say he hadn’t already had eyes on), their beating hearts pressed against each other, united by lust and accommodating for all the lost blood. Malik held onto Bakura’s ivory hair tainted with pink smudges, pulling down every time he gagged on iron or when tongue penetrated his wounds. They remained that way for god knows how long, till they finally pulled away.

The double-edged ‘sword’ clanged, covered in mixed fluids, followed by a downpour of blood.