Work Text:
Rainwater splattered into the metal basin of an old sink, cutting a series of winding trails through long-settled grime. Bakura squeezed his top again, determined to wring out every last drop of water. Sunlight trickled in through the blinds, filtered through both rain and fog, casting a faint row of stripes along his bare arms.
And chest.
"You're going to catch pneumonia and die," Malik repeated for the third time that hour. Bakura's puffer coat was draped over his shoulders like a makeshift blanket, his own jacket hanging limply on a rusted coat rack by the entrance, a shallow puddle growing steadily beneath it.
Unlike Bakura, he'd opted to keep his undershirt on.
"I'm sure that sounds terrifying to someone who hasn't already cheated death five billion times."
"You say that, but the Ring's turned to dust and I don't think Diva's ever going to do me another favour once he finds out I brought back the damn Thief King."
"So lie. You're good at that, right?"
"Your nipples will fall off."
Okay, now that was scary.
"I can’t believe you spent years living in Japan, in a Japanese kid’s body no less, and still managed to book our stay during fucking monsoon season."
"You're absolutely right Malik; that's what I should've wasted my cursed existence doing — memorising annual Japanese weather patterns for this holiday, specifically."
"Glad we're on the same page."
The poor thing had been anticipating this trip for months, and if he weren't partially at fault, Bakura would have gladly encouraged him to bitch his whiny little heart out.
They'd wandered Kyoto for all of an hour before it began to rain, an unfortunate mix of pride, poor planning, and an unpaid phone bill the primary reason their two week holiday began with a 10-kilometre trek to their hotel. The light drizzle quickly spiralled into a downpour while they were passing a row of abandoned homes, although Bakura had initially mistaken them for 'old-timey ramen shops'.
It wasn't until the winds started picking up that Malik insisted they take shelter, leading Bakura to break into the nearest one available. The rotting plywood barring the door was old and mushy, but apparently, that didn't necessarily mean fewer splinters.
He was surprised to find that the interior was still fully furnished, albeit frozen in whichever year the home had been condemned. His first instinct was to search the place for anything that might be valuable, however considering that his companion had an almost debilitating fear of the dark and the space was decidedly...well, dark, he spent the first few minutes trying to brighten things up instead.
Which more or less meant tearing out the boards covering the windows.
"No wonder the hotel reservations were so cheap."
Malik sent him a nasty look before redoing his braid, irritated that all the time he'd spent getting ready was literally washed away in a matter of minutes. "Seriously?"
“No, sarcastically.” Bakura raised an eyebrow. “‘Seriously’ what?"
"You cheaped out? On me?"
"Why the hell would I pay a premium to sleep in a bed that thousands of other people already fucked on?"
“Thousands?”
"For a fraction of the cost, I could buy a sleeping bag and find us a nice, romantic car park instead."
"That sentence got worse with each word," Malik mumbled, struggling to tie off his braid. “I’m kind of impressed.”
"Does that mean I should cancel the room?"
"Bakura, I'm not sleeping outside for two weeks," he said tersely.
"Even if I got you a cardboard box to shield you from the elements?"
“No.”
“What about a fancy wine crate? From France?”
“No.”
Bakura knew he was pushing his luck; Malik was clearly teetering on the edge of a meltdown, although he couldn't quite tell if it was due to his hair tie not behaving or the overall situation they'd found themselves in. Realising that a pissed off Malik would only make things even more miserable for the both of them, Bakura hung his shirt on a dusty pot rack and went to help him secure the end of his braid.
"How the fuck is this so difficult for you?" he asked, holding the band between his teeth.
"I don't have a mirror and it keeps coming out crooked."
"Remind me to get you a compact once we get out of this shithole.”
“Speaking of which, what exactly is a stigmatised property?” Malik asked, tilting his head.
Bakura blinked. “A what?”
"It was written on a few of the flyers stapled to the door."
"No idea; I was too busy ripping off three layers of plywood by myself."
Malik shrugged. "You looked like you had it under control."
“I know you hear this a lot, but you are so, so lucky that you’re hot,” Bakura said, leaving him with a surprisingly decent plait. Shoutout to Ryou for teaching him such a frivolous skill.
After a quick inspection, Malik pressed a kiss onto his cheek in thanks.
Crisis averted.
"I love it! You know, you’re actually pretty good at—” He paused, a small frown tugging at his lips. "Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?" Bakura asked, glancing behind him.
Malik slowly crept towards the interior hallway, drawing Bakura's coat tightly around him. "It sounded like somebody was opening a door." He turned back, eyes wide. "What if there’s someone else here?"
"Then we punch them in the mouth and steal their clothes."
"...Ew?"
Typical.
"Malik, the entrance was boarded shut; the only things living in here are rats and roaches."
"And if they're not alive?"
Bakura rolled his eyes. "Really? Ghosts?"
"You being sceptical of ghosts is the stupidest thing I’ve heard today," Malik said dully. “Go see what it is.”
“Me?”
“Sure. You’re an ex-ghost, so you might be able to build a rapport and stuff.”
Bakura had given up trying to understand Malik's thought process ages ago, but this was the first time in a long while that he'd been left completely speechless.
"What do you think?" Malik asked.
"I think you're jetlagged as fuck and hearing things that aren't there."
Malik huffed. However, instead of arguing otherwise and insisting that Bakura investigate, he begrudgingly returned to the kitchen.
"I am kind of tired," he admitted, resting his cheek against Bakura's shoulder. "But I'm worried if I take a nap I'll wake up with my lungs full of asbestos."
Bakura snorted. “Bet sleeping outside in a cardboard box is starting to sound pretty sexy now, huh?”
“Still no.”
Eh, worth a shot.
"Do you want to see if one of the other rooms has a bed?" he asked, idly tucking a lock of hair behind Malik's ear.
"What's the point? It'll be dustier than out here."
"So what the hell do you want?"
"A pillow."
Ah. He knew where this was going.
"Am I the pillow?"
"Maybe."
Figures.
Bakura sighed, already making his way to the living room.
"If it'll shut you up," he said, feigning annoyance. "I’ll wake you up once the rain stops."
"What if it doesn't stop until nightfall?" Malik asked, plopping down beside him.
"Then we either tough it out in this haunted house or try the streets and hope our phones are strong enough to ward off the night clowns."
"...Night clowns?"
"Yeah. Or worse, one of those Japanese delivery trucks that boot you into another dimension."
Malik raised an eyebrow. "Ninth Millennium Item?"
"Ninth Millennium Item," Bakura said solemnly.
It didn't take long for Malik to doze off, lulled by the steady beat of rain pounding on the roof overhead. Bakura considered taking a quick power nap himself, though he wasn't sure how comfortable he could get with Malik's head placed squarely in his lap.
Plus, now that the silence had settled in, he'd discovered that the creaks and groans weren't just figments of Malik's sleep-deprived imagination.
Every now and then, he would hear the very distinct sound of a knob turning, followed by the low squeak of an opening door. He hadn't bothered to check their source, not because he was afraid of what he would find, but because he wasn't ready to admit that Malik might have been right about the whole ghost thing.
A flash of lightning briefly filled the room with a blinding light, the deep rumble of thunder rolling in shortly after. A sudden movement drew Bakura's attention from Malik's peaceful expression to a nearby mirror, the ghastly face of a young girl reflected through the thick layer of dust.
Her appearance was painfully stereotypical; deathly pale skin, dark, stringy hair, and blue-tinted lips stretched grotesquely in a soundless scream.
Bakura noted the mottled bruises circling her neck.
He continued to stare unflinchingly at her reflection, his steely gaze meeting gaping, eyeless sockets. The ghost cocked her head into an impossible angle, her jerky movement accompanied by a sickening crunch.
Bakura raised a finger to his lips, his other arm draped protectively over Malik's chest as he remained sound asleep and blissfully unaware.
"Not this one."