Work Text:
From time to time, Malik considered going to a therapist, dragging them both to a therapist maybe, but he already knew that wouldn't go over well.
Several years back, after Battle City had ended, Isis had insisted he see one, and he'd tried to go – really, he had – but it had felt like a useless effort. How did one explain to an outside source that they'd been trapped underground for the majority of their life? How did one explain that they'd been born into a cult that worshipped a long dead Pharaoh and pledged their loyalty by carving his memories onto children's backsides? It wasn't like he could just say that he'd developed a darker half and murdered his father, then set out to collect trading cards containing the souls of the Gods to exact his revenge on someone who was already dead. Nor could he talk about the fact that said darker half had eventually taken him over and tried to destroy everything and everyone within reach. What would any of that have sounded to someone on the outside with no prior knowledge or insight into the matter?
It would have sounded insane. He sooner thought he'd be carted off to an institution rather than receive any sort of help.
More so than that, he found he didn't want to confide in a complete stranger, no matter how professionally trained. To confide meant he would have to explain all of what had happenned to him, or at least enough so that it made sense. What had this person done to earn that? He didn't let just anyone see his scars.
When that first appointment had finally come, he found he had nothing to say and had quickly left, lying to Isis that all had gone well. Always lying. He hadn't returned even though he said he would, convinced nothing could help, and that he was alone in this. He had Rishid to talk to, but his brother and Isis always seemed like they'd progressed far more than him, able to forget and move on better than he ever could.
That wasn't to say he hadn't made progress as well. Nowadays, those times where he felt off were few and far between, a dull throb rather than painful wound left open to heal on its own.
Still, in innocent moments like these, when all he wanted was to reach up and grab a glass from the cupboard, a sharp twinge at his shoulderblades reminded him of all he bore, literally and figuratively, on his back. He was never going to pretend that he would be free of the past; it would always be there, no matter how faded, no matter how much time had gone by. And every time it whispered in his ear, he let it, no matter how much agony it dredged back up.
Malik gripped the counter's edge, a single rattling breath pulled from his lungs. Mid-morning sunlight streamed in through the kitchen window, washing over his arms and chest. Dust motes floated before his face as he watched. He raised a hand, fingers sliding up over his shoulder to touch one of the tips of the wings that stretched over the skin of his back. He inhaled, exhaled, waited for the sensations crawling like bugs over him to pass, as it eventually would. He let it come, he let it go – that was all he could do.
Pulling away from the counter, he went to the fridge and poured himself a glass of filtered water, feeling like he was carrying out the motions automatically rather than consciously doing them. Sipping the cool liquid brought him back to himself, slowly but surely. Leaving the now empty glass in the sink, he wandered into the living room, where Bakura had likely crashed seeing as he hadn't come to bed last night.
Bakura lay on his side on the couch, controller for his game resting on the floor just in front of him. The TV was still on, displaying a 'YOU ARE DEAD' screen that was somewhat hard to see due to the light reflecting off of it. Marik snorted and walked around to sit down next to him. He expected Bakura to still be passed out but was surprised to find that, upon closer inspection, Bakura's eyes were open, red-rimmed like he hadn't slept at all. He didn't even look in Malik's direction, gazing straight ahead with a blank stare. It looked like he'd been crying, but his breathing was slow and even and he didn't seem distressed at all.
Malik didn't need to ask what was wrong. He rubbed a hand up and down Bakura's side empathetically.
“It's just one of those days, eh?”
Bakura didn't say anything, nor did he react to the comforting touch. A full minute went by, and Malik didn't think he'd even seen him blink. If not for the subtle movement of his shoulders as he breathed, Malik would have worried that Bakura had died in his sleep.
“Bakura?”
Bakura exhaled through his nose, squeezing his eyes shut and then opening them again and repeating that process several times to get the moisture back in them. He seemed to come back to himself, slowly drawing himself up into a sitting position, still appearing dazed.
“I don't remember much,” he said, voice hoarse. He cleared his throat. “I really don't remember much at all.”
“Much of what?” Malik frowned at him, confused. Bakura stared at him, then his eyes fell down to his own hands and he stared at those too.
“I didn't really pay much mind to it before but now that I have the time to think about it I realize...” Bakura closed his eyes, something grave and resigned in his expression. “I don't remember a lot of my old life.”
Understanding dawned on Malik and he lowered his gaze to the floor, not knowing what to say about his partner's predicament. It wasn't something he could comprehend well. He had issues with memory and dissociation himself, but being a spirit thousands of years old was on a whole other level. He couldn't imagine what it was like for him. Bakura gave a half-hearted scoff.
“Not that there's much worth remembering but it was my life, and chunks are just... missing.” Bakura opened his eyes, gaze landing somewhere far beyond the living room.
“I can recall the massacre of my village with perfect clarity. I could tell you in detail what the man that speared my father through the chest looked like, how many cracks there were in the stone wall I hid behind, what order the bodies fell into the pit... but I can't remember the names of my people.”
Malik reached over to lace his fingers through Bakura's, squeezing softly. Bakura neither pulled away nor acknowledged the gesture, his hand remaining lax in Malik's reassuring grip.
“I can recall famine, traipsing the desert, robbing tombs, but the details are all fuzzy. The simple things... fuck, those are just not there. It's like I didn't even exist.” A note of distress entered his voice. “I can recall fighting the Pharaoh, but I can't remember what I was doing a couple days before that, hell, even hours before that. I don't understand, where did it all go?”
Malik stroked the back of his hand with his thumb, patiently waiting for Bakura to continue. The pause lasted a while, several emotions passing over Bakura's face – confusion, irritation, something resembling hurt.
“The only conclusion I can draw is that I forgot it in the Ring. I forgot it when Necrophade's soul merged with mine. It was eaten by the darkness. I try and remember more but it's all just black. It's gone.” He withdrew his hand from Malik's, rubbing at his temples to ward off the headache setting in. He looked like he wanted to say more, but he couldn't seem to find the words to and shook his head instead. “Never mind, this is stupid.”
“If it makes you upset, then it's not stupid.” Marik said. If there was one thing he'd learned, it was that sweeping how one really felt under the carpet would only lead to more pain later, especially with matters like these.
Bakura fixed him with a sharp look. “Shut up, of course it is. People get upset over dumb shit all the time. It doesn't change the fact that it's dumb.”
Malik's gaze was sympathetic. His hand found his partner's cheek, fingers sliding gently along the scar that cut down his face. “Bakura...”
Bakura jerked his head away stubbornly, jaw clenched to the point that it looked bad for his teeth. He said nothing more for a long time. Marik sighed and stood up, padding back to the kitchen. He poured another glass of water and went back over to the couch to resume his spot next to him.
Bakura accepted it almost robotically, his posture rigid with tension. He took a single sip of the water, and then held it at his lap in both hands, staring down at it like it would reveal some lost secret to him. Malik watched him with intent, but didn't press any further, waiting for him to come forth on his own terms with whatever was bothering him.
“... I had a dream last night.” Bakura spoke again after a while. “It wasn't of the massacre, no, it was... just my village. Everyone was there, everything was normal but...”
He raised a hand to his face, pinching at the bridge of his nose and shaking his head. Whatever dream it was, it seemed just as capable of shaking him as much as a nightmare filled with blood and fire and screams ever could.
“It's like when you look at a picture and it appears normal at first, but when you take a closer look at the details, it's all wrong. None of the villagers had faces. They were there and a I knew who they were, but I didn't recognize them.” A tremor crept into his voice, his breathing shuddering in and out in ragged pulls of air. Malik's own chest hurt, listening to him. He placed a hand on his back, wishing he could ward off whatever darkness had descended over Bakura's thoughts. “I just... what was the point of revenge if I could never even put a face to who I was exacting it for?”
Bakura keened lowly, the despair in his voice almost tangible. He didn't even seem to realize Malik was in the room anymore, it was like he was talking to himself. His voice became close to a whisper. “What would my people think if they saw me like this now?”
Malik said nothing, merely letting Bakura vent. He wasn't a therapist and he didn't know how to deal with other's pain but, like himself, he knew Bakura didn't have anyone else to confide in with his problems. Bakura curled in on himself, anguish swelling, turning into something new.
“My head has never been this clear before, and the more I think on it the more I realize how much of a fucking pawn to Zorc I was.” Bakura's voice became a low growl, the surrounding air growing heavy with building fury. And then, all at once, his shoulders dropped and he relaxed, a kind of grim acceptance seeping into him, but the calm lasted for only a few seconds. It was the silence before the storm, and in the next moment he stood up, hand clenched so tightly around the glass that the dark skin stretched over his knuckles blanched.
“He used me!” Bakura screamed, hurling the glass at the wall. It shattered in a spray of glass and water that caught the light streaming into the living room. He shook, continuing to rant in a strained voice. “He – it – the fucking darkness, it used me! It used my anger about my village for its own gain! And what the hell am I left with?”
Malik stared impassively at the newly formed dent in the wall. He'd broken and smashed many things in fits of uncontrollable emotion, so he couldn't judge, and it was easily repairable. He was more concerned about the broken man before him. Bakura trembled, hugging himself, fingernails digging into his own arms.
“I felt so powerful before, but it turned out I never had any control after all,” he spat out, disgust poisoning his words. “I let myself be played.”
As quickly as his temper had flared, it seemed to die down. Complete and total helplessness was the reason he wasn't continuing to break things. There was no point. Nothing could change the past. Slowly, Bakura lowered himself back down to the couch, tension unfurling from him like a wave.
“I was never... anything... but a game piece...”
His last words were barely a whisper. Malik sighed and slid his arm over his shoulders, which still quivered with grief. Slowly, he drew Bakura closer to rest against his chest, combing a hand through his jagged white hair – the same way Bakura would comfort him after a nightmare. He didn't know what he would do without his partner there, and vice versa.
“But you are something now.” Malik said, voice soft and placating. He brushed stray strands of unruly hair away from Bakura's forehead. “You're here with me, Bakura. You're the asshole that keeps me company and eats all my food.”
Bakura managed a quiet, rattling laugh. “I don't even know if that's my real name.”
Malik bumped his forehead against his partner's. “It's yours now. The past doesn't matter anymore.”
A dry smirk crossed Bakura's face, the expression reassuring – Malik would have preferred anything over him looking lost and empty. He hugged Bakura's shoulders tightly, sighing. Mornings like these weren't uncommon, where it seemed like the only place they could find solace in from their problems was with each other.
Bakura glanced over at the pile of glass on the floor, blinking as though he didn't remember how it had gotten there. His expression fell into a thoughtful one as he sunk further into Malik's arms.
“... I wonder if I'll see them again.” Bakura murmured. It took Malik a moment to understand what he was talking about. He chuckled again, humorless. “I don't know if I'll be granted a pass into the afterlife all the shit I pulled.”
“Perhaps this is your chance to make up for it,” Malik said, idly tracing his fingertips along the scar on Bakura's face. “You have your body back now, right? A heart of your own?”
Malik had never considered the afterlife. In the past, he'd been fully prepared to die and always assumed he'd go to a much darker place. The idea that he may have a shot at going to the fields took him by surprise. He pondered for a moment if that meant seeing his mother... or possibly his father, and he didn't know how to feel about that. It all would have sounded like some fairy tale if he hadn't seen the doors to the afterlife open and close right before his eyes.
Malik snorted softly to himself. After the whole fiasco with the Gods, the Millennium Items, the shadow magic, the dark games... waking life seemed so mundane in comparison. Not that he couldn't appreciate normalcy, it just seemed like a weird contrast.
“That's true...” Bakura replied, having calmed a great deal – and when discussing death, ironically. “Perhaps without the weight of the darkness, it can balance Ma'at's feather.” He was silent for a moment, and then he shrugged and waved a hand uncaringly, not wanting to linger on the topic. “Whatever. I'll cross that bridge when it comes.”
Malik nodded in agreement. Though for a moment he thought of the time that death would naturally come for them. It didn't bother him as much as he felt it should have, but perhaps that was because he was thinking of the two of them walking into the afterlife together, their respective families waiting on the other side.
He brushed the thought away – like Bakura said, no use dwelling on the inevitable – and threw a smile at his partner.
“Until then, stay with me?”
To answer him, Bakura leaned upward and sealed their lips together in a long kiss.