Chapter Text
Dark…
Bakura never minded the dark before, but something about the finality of this darkness set what little was left of his soul on edge. He’d lost. Again. He’d never get vengeance. He’d never know what became of the spirits (family) that once haunted Kul Elna.
And why did he…
The thought was half formed in Bakura’s consciousness.
Why did he….
He didn’t really want to think about it. There’d been so much he'd never thought about as he stumbled, blind in his need for vengeance, through the last three thousands years of existence.
Yet something was different now. It was dark, but he felt like his eyes were finally adjusting, allowing himself to see things more clearly than before.
It was the game when he'd realized it, that final RPG.
He’d told the Pharaoh that Akhenaden had become Zorc’s Ultimate Shadow Priest and led the spirits into battle against Atem.
Why the HELL would he allow AKHENADEN to go anywhere NEAR his family? Akhenaden was the one that had murdered them. He was the one that had defiled them. He was the one that had forged the Items and offered them to the Pharaoh!
“Oh no.” Bakura sank to his knees.
He somehow sank deeper into the darkness, a white scrap of paper falling down the shaft of a deep well. And perhaps that’s all Bakura had ever been- a scrap, garbage.
“Bastard-” Bakura muttered the curse through gritted teeth, but for once it wasn’t directed at the Pharaoh, or even Akhenaden.
Zorc had played him. Zorc had used him, and Bakura had been so eager- so desperate- to lash out at those who’d hurt him, that he leapt at the opportunity to be a useless little game piece for a dark god.
But now that it was all over, and Zorc had tossed him aside like a broken toy, Bakura was able to see what role he’d really played.
Pawn.
I thought I could control a dark god for my own plans. He’d let me think I was in control the entire time.
Pawn.
So stupid… I was so stupid…
“Fuck!” Bakura screamed into the void.
He clawed at the darkness, trying to keep himself afloat, but there was nothing to cling to. The darkness sifted through his fingers like fine grains of black sand. He sank lower, ever lower. It was a slow, agonizing descent, but it refused to be stopped. Bakura flung back his head to scream louder than before.
“Fuck!”
Above all else, he hated himself, loathed himself. The Pharaoh was a prick, and Bakura would alway hate him. The entire dynasty had been rotten, allowing war and poverty to almost destroy the land. Even with the Items, people starved and stole from desperation. Atem had the power of 99 sacrifices hanging from his neck, and he used that power to judge the kingdom instead of building it into something better.
But Bakura was worse. He hadn’t been a spoiled child god-king like Atem. He’d grown up hyperaware of the complexity of the world, and he still allowed himself to be manipulated by a demon. He should have known better. He should have known better, and the hatred Bakura felt for himself in that moment was deep and intimate. He’d called himself a Dark Master, but he’d barely been more than an NPC.
He no longer sifted through the black like sand through an hourglass. No, he was free falling. His hair whipped behind him like a comet tail as he plummeted into the bottomless darkness.
Then a golden bolt slammed into him. The shock of impact knocked the air from Bakura’s lungs as he crashed to the “ground.” Bakura didn’t even have time to open his eyes before a fist connected with his jaw. Pain jolted up the side of Bakura’s face and down his spine. He growled and lashed out, throwing his own punches in return.
“Stupid asshole!” A familiar voice cursed.
Bakura was on his feet now, still swinging. The copper skin, golden hair, and dark purple cloak were more than familiar to him. It felt good, real damn good, to have something external to focus his anger and hatred on again, and what better target than Malik’s alter ego?
“What’s the matter?” Bakura scoffed and he grabbed the creature’s hair and used his other fist to break the other Malik’s nose. “Thought you loved the darkness?”
“I said I’d love to tame it.” Malik’s other half cackled as he grabbed Bakura’s throat and squeezed.
Bakura kicked out, his foot landing into the other Malik’s stomach and making him stumble backwards a step.
“Sorry to disappoint.” Bakura coughed, holding his bruised throat. “But I’ve had a bit of a falling out with the darkness since we last fought. You could say we’ve broken up.”
“How heartbreaking!” The other Malik lunged forward. He tackled Bakura back to the shadowed ground and straddled him as he pushed his thumbs into Bakura’s eyes. “Then let’s make this a blind date!”
Bakura shifted and managed to knee the other Malik in the groin before he could gauge Bakura’s eyes out of his skull. They wrestled, something Bakura forgotten he could do, but he’d been the youngest of many cousins back in Egypt and even as a small child had learned to slip from larger, stronger opponents and hold his own in a brawl. He felt a sting on his cheek and a tingling warmth from a scratch he’d received and his throat still hurt, but Bakura was giving as good as he got.
Maybe the creature that shared Malik’s rich, copper complexion didn’t show the bruises as starkly as Bakura’s skin- which had stayed milk-pale like Ryou’s even after his spirit had left the Ring- but the bright streaks of red from the scratches and cuts were beautiful beacons in the monotonous dark.
The other Malik bit into Bakura’s collar bone. It was a strange, shocking feeling, more exciting than painful. Bakura slapped Malik’s doppelganger.
“None of that!”
The other Malik only spat and dove for Bakura again, jaw wide and teeth bared. Bakura headbutted him and they ended up back on the ground in a chaotic heap of limbs and hair. Bakura’s arms felt like marble, heavy and stiff. He noticed his opponent's blows weren’t as crushing as they’d been at the beginning of the fight. This battle was going to be a matter of who collapsed first, and Bakura refused to be killed by Malik’s mental disorder- although it somehow figured Malik would somehow be the death of him.
However, after fifteen more minutes of kicks, scratches, and hair tugging, Malik’s other half collapsed onto Bakura’s chest. They both lay on top of each other. Their chests swelled and collapsed with harsh, ragged breaths.
“That … all… you got?” Bakura wheezed shallow breaths between words, but that didn’t stop him from being facetious.
Malik’s other half tried to claw at Bakura’s chest, but all he managed was to clasp onto Bakura’s shirt.
“Fuck,” he cursed in a breathless growl. “Soon as I can move again- you’re dead.”
“Not if I recover first.” Bakura smirked.
Bakura should have told Malik’s double to get the fuck off of his chest, but the creature radiated heat from their fight and the Shadows were so damn cold. His eyes fluttered shut wholly against his internal commands to stay awake and murder the other Malik the second he could.
He dreamt of the day he died.
And hated himself for his own ignorance.
***
Bakura awoke with a gasp. At first he thought he was back in the Ring because of the darkness, but then he remembered losing against the Pharaoh and his soul being sent to the Shadow Realm instead. A warm, comforting weight rested on Bakura’s chest. Bakura looked down at himself and realized Malik’s other half was passed out on top of him. Bakura jerked at in reflexive shock, but then remembered their fight. The memory didn’t help remedy the eerie calm of the moment. It was like the Shadows had slid away from them and they floated on their own.
Bakura didn’t understand how he could feel so peaceful crushed under the weight of his enemy in a realm of darkness, terror, and suffering. Perhaps it was how Malik-like the alter ego’s face looked when he was sleeping. He still wore the kohl markings that represented the tomb-guards as far back as Priest Mahad’s time, and the gold jewelry that Malik had worn during Battle City. His cape draped over them like a blanket and that added to the surreal feeling of contentment.
Bakura chuckled. Existence was absurd and he was a little sick of it. For an instant Bakura thought of allowing this child of darkness to simply strangle him until oblivion released him from the continuation of his suffering. However, be it a curse or blessing, Bakura was too proud and willful to give up, even after three thousand years of torment.
Still… the creature’s face in rest was so similar to Malik’s. Not that Bakura had ever had a chance to see Malik relaxed. Malik’s face had always been gilded with cruelty and purpose. That’s what drew Bakura to him so strongly. Bakura realized that he would have liked to have seen a similar calm expression on Malik’s face. He reached out, combing the golden knives of hair.
Malik’s alter ego gasped as the gentle touch. His eyes shot open as he woke, and he looked at Bakura.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“I’m surprised that your hair is soft. I half expected to cut my fingers on it.”
“By why did you touch it?”
“Despair.” Bakura’s gaze lulled upward, but all he saw was dark.
He knew they were going to fight again. It was inevitable, but he was content to lay there and stay motionless until Malik’s other half started something. The alter ego laughed. Bakura felt the shaking of it against his ribs.
“Despair? You? Don’t tell me you’re giving up so soon. I’m looking forward to spending the next thousand years ripping you to confetti.” He dragged himself higher against Bakura’s body so he could grip his hair and bring their faces close together. “Don’t give up yet, thief. It won’t be any fun if you stop fighting back.”
“You’re like what? Six? Give existing another three thousand years and then maybe you’ll understand just how tired I am.” Bakura grinned. He may as well have been a grinning skull as far as the expression felt on his face- stripped, joyless, nothing but a jaw bone grinding against its hinges.
“I’m not six,” Malik’s other half argued. “I was Malik until we split, and then I was still Malik. The real Malik. I’m all the things Malik really wanted.”
“You were a puppet.” Bakura snorted. “Malik’s pain and anger were your strings- jerking you around and making you dance- and now you’re nothing.” Bakura shut his eyes, his lids too heavy to support himself. “We’re both nothing. The Pharaoh won, he always won, and now he’s a god and we’re garbage tossed into a black, empty landfill.”
He felt the sting of a hard slap, and heard the sound of flesh-smacking-flesh ringing out into the shadows even as his cheeks burned from the friction.
“Truth hurts, doesn’t it?” Bakura’s smile widened.
“You’re one to talk!” The alter ego screamed into Bakura’s face. “You were a puppet of the Ring!”
“You’re right,” Bakura admitted.
“Fuck you! Don’t agree with me.”
A dry laugh rattled in Bakura’s lungs. “Maybe you are Malik. You argue as much as he did.”
“I’m not a puppet anymore.” The other Malik released Bakura’s hair, letting Bakura’s head drop to the ground. “Ever since I’ve been here, I’ve… changed. Being on my own, out of Malik’s head… it’s made me different. Now I’m me.”
“I know what you mean, being out of the Ring is making me remember what it was like to be alive.”
“I was never really alive.” The other Malik couldn’t keep the rueful tone out of his voice.
The sound of his voice, the sadness of it, had a strange effect on Bakura. He remembered that exact tone coming from Malik’s voice.
Okay, I fucked up. Is that what you wanted to hear? Will you help me now?
It had been exactly what Bakura wanted to hear. Malik had put him through a maze of tasks, and then jeopardized his host during Bakura’s duel against the Pharaoh. Malik hadn’t known, hadn’t truly known, the difference between Yugi and Atem. Yugi would never hurt his friend; Atem would never suffer to lose a game. That was why Bakura had taken the blast from Slifer himself.
Not that passing out from injury was enough to keep Malik away. He’d been back, desperate and (dare Bakura say afraid?) of his alter ego, and Bakura couldn’t help but help Malik. Although it had made no sense for him to do so.
“If I’d had any common sense, I would have joined forces with you. You wanted to sacrifice everything to the darkness. I was the embodiment of darkness. We could have really fucked shit up together.”
“Malik had you wrapped around his little finger.” The alter ego snorted.
“No, it wasn’t like that.”
“No?”
“No.” Bakura grinned. It was sincere- and that frightened Bakura- but he was trapped in the darkness forever, so what did it matter if memories of Malik made him smile? “I… I don’t know. I understood him.”
“I understood him more,” the alter ego snapped. “More than he understood himself.”
“Yeah, probably.” Bakura shrugged.
“It’s better I’m here,” he muttered. “Malik’s better off without me.”
“He’s better off without either of us. Fuck, my host, too. I told you, we’re trash. Discarded cards sent to the graveyard.”
“At least you protected your host. I was suppose to protect Malik, but everything, I don’t know, it changed somehow. I went from wanting to protect him to wanting to destroy him and I’m not even sure when the change happened.”
“It was the Rod. The Items feed off of negativity. They look like gold, right? Beautiful. But no, they’re made from these Shadows mixed with blood and suffering and agony.”
“You filthy whore, grab my balls if you’re going to dirty talk like that.”
Bakura laughed. He did not want to find Malik’s other half funny, or understand him. Bad enough he understood Malik, felt a strange attraction towards the tombkeeper. The last thing he needed was that nonsense getting muddled in his brain and mixed up with the creature still resting on Bakura’s chest.
Bakura knew he should reach out and sink his nails into the other Malik’s cheek, claw the flesh from his face and renew their fight until only one of them stood. He even reached out his hand to do it, but the Other Malik flicked his lilac gaze back up to Bakura, and Bakura’s fingers caressed the side of the other Malik’s cheek instead of tearing into his flesh.
“Stop.”
Bakura dropped his hand. The other Malik’s face twisted in rage. Wrinkles creased his forehead and the corners of his eyes. He squeezed his lids shut as he nails dug into Bakura’s shirt.
“Don’t really stop!”
“If you say stop of course I’m going to stop.”
“Since when did you treat bodies like anything other than vessels?”
“Fuck you, since I left the Ring. I told you, I’m remembering what I was like as a human, and maybe I was a bad human, too, but I wouldn’t keep touching someone had they ever said to stop.”
“It’s confusing,” the other Malik said the words like a death threat somehow, hateful and violent. “No one’s ever… they hugged Malik, but no one ever touched me.”
“I figured. No one ever touched me either. Not since my family died.”
“Do you want me to?” The other Malik’s face was a grotesque twist of emotion, but he gave Bakura a hopeful look.
“I don’t care.” Bakura snorted and looked away.
His face jerked back when he felt coarse fingers slide down his own cheek. He marveled at the texture and took the other Malik’s hand so he could examine it. Malik never did his own work and his hands had been soft as cashmere, but his alter ego’s hands were work-calloused. Also, while Malik’s nails were pristine and manicured, his other half’s were bitten bloody. Bakura had to remind himself that, in the Shadow Realm, they technically didn’t have physical bodies. This was a manifestation of how Malik’s alter saw himself, doing all the dirty work- thus the calloused hands- and he probably bit his own nails from nerves. Bakura had when he was alive.
Before he knew what he was doing, Bakura was resting the other Malik’s hand to his cheek again.
“This is weird,” Malik’s other half whispered, but a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“I know.” Bakura thought about pulling back, but the thought drove him insane. Instead, he clutched at the other Malik’s back in a desperate embrace. “Fuck it. Godsdammit and fuck them all. We’re here forever, so why not?”
“Yeah, fuck it.” The other Malik’s breath hitched at Bakura’s violent hold. He buried his face in the crook of Bakura’s neck.
Bakura got the strange notion in his head that he wouldn’t mind spending a few thousand years just like they were. Seriously, fuck it. Why shouldn’t they? All the cards had ran out from their hand. They’d lost. They were alone, and Bakura was fucking sick of being alone. It hadn’t bothered him in the Ring, but the regurgitated remains of his humanity had surfaced now that he was free, and he needed to be fucking held so fucking badly that he felt like he was dying from want of it.
So he slammed his eyes shut, and squeezed at the other Malik’s body, and made a mental note at how nice it was to feel the other Malik’s hair tickle his cheek. He was okay. This was going to be okay. They could stay like this forever, and the darkness wouldn’t bother them and they couldn’t bother anyone else. It was fine. Hell, it was better than their entire existence before that moment.
The crack of thunder and rain exploded in Bakura’s ears even as he felt the freezing drops bombarding his skin. He and Malik’s other half jumped at the same instant and scrambled to their feet. The rain soaked through their hair, weight it down, and the cold water chilled their skin. There were bricks to either side of them and the smearing afterglow of street lights to the north. Bakura squinted against the rain and looked at the sky in time to see a scar of yellow carve into the clouds above.
“Are we… alive?” The other Malik clutched to Bakura’s arm.
Bakura looked down at his hands and noticed that the left was ruined with scar tissue that tore from front to back. He mentally called out for Ryou, expecting to hear the small voice asking how Bakura had returned, but he was alone, alone in a body that looked like Ryou’s, and he didn’t understand why or how.
“This can’t … how did this happen?”
Malik’s other half shook his head. He looked even more like his other half with the rain soaking his hair down. His teeth chattered, and the hand on Bakura’s arm shook. Bakura realized they needed to get out of the freezing rain. He grabbed the other Malik’s hand and pulled him down the alley.
“Follow my lead.”
“What are you doing?”
“Finding a store with some Duel Monster cards.”
“The last thing I want to do is play a card game!” The other Malik pulled out of Bakura’s hold.
“Do you want a dry bed?” Bakura pivoted, clenched the other Malik’s arm again, and pulled him forward. “Because for that we need money. If I steal some cards I can hustle a few games for enough cash to get us through the night.”
“I have a better idea. Let’s stop by the ATM. I remember Malik’s pin.”
Bakura thought about it, and while it’d be much quicker, he didn’t like the idea. He bit the inside of his cheek and shook his head.
“He’ll investigate. What he he figures out it was you? Do you really want him to know that you’re back? He has his family now. He doesn’t need either of us to protect him anymore.”
“You’re right.” Malik’s double nodded. “He really is better off without us. Fine. Let’s leave him alone and steal some cards.”