Bakura had written it down in the dust, scratching his fingernail through dirt. The glyphs were scarcely legible, thin, barely cut into the earth. "Nisu-Itjaw Bakhura." He stands, scraping his filthy hands down the front of his jeans, and smirks at Malik, in a show of teeth. "It means Sunrise," and he laughs, before scuffing his name out with the toe of his shoe.

"It means Thief-King." Malik watches Bakura, as though waiting for a snake to bite. He could see the bright stain of Bakura's teeth in that smile, and the sight made his blood run hot.

"Malik means King, too." Bakura turns his face away, still laughing under his breath. "We have something in common, partner."

Insistent, Malik shook his head. "We have more in common than just that," his pulse had been climbing up his spine, heart clawing into his throat, "we have a common desire."

Bakura's gaze snaps back to Malik, grin softening, and teeth hidden, tucked into the gentle smile. "Oh?" He sounds insincere as poison, words bleached with sarcasm. "Do we now?"

That time Malik laughs, because it put Bakura on edge, set needles in his nerves. "Why else are you here? What else keeps you, except hate, Spirit?" Malik's gaze is half-lidded, words half-lilted, head tilted; he had always been half-empty back then, putting too much of himself into everything.

In contrast, Bakura never put in enough, swallowing back feelings like gritted sand. There is a fire in Malik, that is only ash in Bakura. Coolly, Bakura averts his eyes. "You're a little young for hate, Ishtar."

At the time, Malik thought Bakura had been insulting him, in his own strange way. Now, Malik suspects Bakura's words are an oblique confession. He hopes they were. Malik hadn't understood it at the time, and Malik is not sure he understands now; the meaning catching in and out, like gold flashing in sunlight when turned just right. The difference between then, and now, is he that he misunderstood Bakura.

It matters. It matters worse than anything he's felt in a long time, and since Battle City, Malik has been in the business of feeling very little. Guilt flares, but it dies as quickly as righteousness did. He gave his last fuck saying goodbye to his brother, and in the awkward aftermath of not-being-dead, Malik's fire has finally run dry. He's burnt out, tasting charcoal at the back of his throat, and finally aware that Bakura did not hate.

"It was grief," he tells Rishid one night, "enough to drown in. It might have been hate once, but that died before I met him." It's late, and the hours are almost wine-like, waning over Malik's senses. He stretches back in his seat, the wicker creaking under him. "Grief doesn't die."

Rishid's eyes are soft, and sad, and frustrating to look at, so Malik turns away. The warmth of the night-air is wrapped over Malik's skin, his sweat like a glaze on his bare shoulders, and into the quiet between them, he can hear the ice in Rishid's glass rattle as his brother drinks. At last, Rishid sets the water down, and Malik meets his gaze in the sun-stained dusk.

"Did you love him?" Rishid asks, and in another mouth - another life, even - the question would be crass.

"No," Malik laughs, the sound sweet in his throat, "there was never time."

"Ah."

"I would have, though." Malik's laugh doesn't quite stop, even as his voice dulls to a whisper. "The thrill of it alone," he snorts, shaking his head. "Loving a dead man is exactly my kind of crap." The laughter can't stop, welling up inside of him, as he looks at his brother with gleaming eyes, "I wish I had loved him."

Rishid never answers him, not when he's like that. Instead, Rishid takes another sip of water, "and did he love you?"

He's thought about it before. Wondered why Bakura - an entire ocean of loss, knocking against his ribs - would have let Malik hold him back for even a moment. Wondered why else Bakura ebbed, and lulled against Malik's plans. There had been a tide in their partnership - pushing, and pulling between them - and always with Bakura holding back. Always with his chalky grins, and snarled laughs. Like holding back the sea by sheer force of will-

"If he did, it wouldn't have been enough." Malik's teeth are pin-pricks against the inside of his mouth. "Love, and hate are too similar."

He visits Bakura in hospital, or at least, Namu visits Ryou.

Bakura's grin doesn't reach past his eyes. His mirth leaks forth, showing in a watery smile. "You saved me, didn't you?" Bakura reaches out with one hand, wrist shaking with a deliberateness that is almost offensive. Despite that, Malik reaches back, and squeezes Bakura's slim fingers. "Thank you." The shine in Bakura's eyes is feverish with deceit, staring up at Malik, wet-mouthed, and voice soaking.

Malik shivers, "...it's Ryou, right?"

"Right," Bakura's eyelashes are long, glossing his skin with each blink, and his eyes are a warm brown. Rabbit-eyes, Malik thinks. Vermin, he tells himself. "I owe you my life."

"It's nothing," Malik assures him, folding the insult into his words, even as he takes a seat on the bed. "How are you feeling?" Behind him, he could hear Sugoroku move towards the door, giving them privacy for this play. Malik almost laughs, but as soon as the door closed, his eyes harden instead, and he dropped Bakura's hand, as if the touch had been burning him.

"Bored," Bakura replies, sitting up boldly, and stretching out his neck. "Still making yourself look good?"

"Don't I?"

"Gorgeous," Bakura grins, speaking through his teeth. "I'm intoxicated."

Malik snorts, scuffing the floor with his foot. "You had me going back there - I was starting to think you were Ryou." He looks askance, watching Bakura in the corner of his eye. "How long have you been keeping up that bullshit?"

The grin never seemed to falter, too much pride winding it tense, and feral. "Liar." Bakura's hand drag back through his hair, fingers yanking on knots and coils. "You don't believe a word I say." He looks towards the door, nose crinkling with irritation. "And is this a friendly visit, or did you have something to tell me?"

"Friendly is relative."

"You and I are relative." Bakura shrugs, rolling his shoulders like he's never carried a day's weight on them. Then again, his shoulders are spindly, like a bird's neck. Settling back, Bakura tilts his head, eying Malik with interest. "You must have better things to do than make nice with me."

"Nice," Malik repeats. Bakura cocks an eyebrow, but says nothing. Folding his arms over his chest, Malik looks away from Bakura with a snort. "It would be damn strange if I didn't at least visit the person I saved." He glances aside and out the window. Bakura had drawn it close and dark, but there was still a bright stamp of sunlight on Malik's arms. "I'm bored."

"You're bored?" Bakura's grin twists. "I'm bed-ridden."

"Keeps you out of trouble."

"Ah," Bakura gave a glossy smile, eyelashes flickering, "but you're here."

Frowning, Malik set his hands back down on the bed, leaning his weight back, "What? I'm trouble now," he rolls his eyes, stretching his shoulders out. "If I'm trouble, you're a disaster." Bakura howls, immediate, and uncontrolled, laughter flooding in his throat. There is no pretension in it; just a muddy, messy sound. It's so indulgent, too honest, that Malik looks away, face burning and ashamed on Bakura's behalf, muttering, "It's not that funny."

He only laughs harder, grinning round a mouthful of teeth, eyes flashing. "Don't be shy, Malik." He's predatory, pleased; no trace of prey in Bakura's face. "It doesn't suit you."

"Do you think you are being subtle?" Rishid asks, the faintest curl of a smile on his face. The archives are in Rishid's hand, and Malik is reaching for them, but the question catches Malik. He goes still, hand still out-stretched, Rishid's expression too kind for Malik to look at directly.

He flushes, blood pricking in his face. "What do you mean?"

With a soft sigh, Rishid presses the record into Malik's hand, folding his fingers against the stiff leather of the scroll holder. "He isn't in there; they made sure of that." Uncomfortable, Malik pulls it close to his chest, and Rishid says so gently: "I'm sorry, Habibi."

"I don't know what you mean," Malik murmurs, eyes casting into the shadows at their feet.

"Bakura," Rishid soothes. "I know how you felt about him."

"I am a Tombkeeper," Malik bares his teeth, but there's nothing sharp to it. He may as well be a kitten, showing its teeth to its mother. "This has nothing to do with Bakura."

"Atem has moved on." His brothers reminder is calm with understanding, and Malik has never hated Rishid as much as he does now. "After-all, it is easy to move on when you do not feel left behind." Rishid slides the wall closed again, and the room bathes in firelight, glowing sleekly from their torches. "Or-" his brother is full of gentle, probing questions, and he knows the answer to each one, "is there another reason you asked for the last record of Pharaoh Atem's reign?"

"I really don't know what you mean," Malik insists, fingers digging into the scroll case. The lie sweats between them, but Rishid nods, and pulls his torch from the wall. Hugging the case to him, Malik trails after his brother, face burning a delicate, coppery colour.

Bakura's blood stinks in the air, and Malik stares openly at the filthy bandage around his arm. "That wound is rotting," he snaps, moving from one side of the room to the other. The Battleship is claustrophobic, and Malik can feel an old part of himself aching, asking for the taste of the wind, whip of hair in his face. Bakura on the other hand, seems at home, stretched out across Malik's bed.

In answer, Bakura fingers the gauze, pressing against the wine-red stain at the center of his arm. "I think it suits me," he tells Malik.

Malik scoffs, "Maybe it does." He walks the breadth of the room again, chain of his shirt clinking against his chest. Turning on his heel, Malik marches for the window. "We've been waiting for almost an hour," he hisses, impatience rattling under his skin. "How long does it take Kaiba to make a show of this?" he spits, stalking away from the window, and hovering over the table. "The nerve of the man-"

"Ishtar," Malik's head snaps round, at Bakura's drawl. Bakura has rolled over, and is watching Malik with an amused, thin anger. "If you don't stop pacing, I will pin you to the floor, and wrap my hands around your throat."

A thrill skips through Malik's pulse. "Try it, then."

"No," Bakura laughs, and he beckons Malik over with a casual, offensive flick of his fingers. "Come over here."

"I'll stay out of arm's reach, thank you."

"Get over here." Bakura sits up, gesturing at his arm, "Help me with this." Unconcerned, Bakura begins untying the wrap, one-handedly, and Malik follows the play of his fingers. Twisting his head to his side, Bakura pulls the knot away, and the gauze comes loose on his arm, like a second-skin in white scales. Fascinated, Malik retrieves the roll of gauze, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside Bakura.

As the bandaging falls away, Malik can see the gape of the wound, and despite his misgivings, the blood is clean. Still, cautious, he runs his nails against the edges of the wound, and the incision is flushed pink. There is a quiet intake of breath from Bakura, and Malik looks up. "Can you feel that?" he asks, unashamed of the curiosity in his voice.

"Yes." The brown of Bakura's eyes is a thin, tight ring around the heavy black of his pupils.

"I didn't think you would." Malik is tempted to dig his fingertips into the wound, pry it open, just to see if Bakura will writhe, and whimper. Maybe he'll even scream, Malik wonders, feeling heat set in his throat. He wants to pull the reaction out of Bakura's skin - to see where spirit and body are divided. "You didn't even hesitate."

"It's just pain," Bakura answers, giving a coy smile.

Malik's fingertips shudder, sliding on skin, and he watches Bakura's face. The smile is still there, still coy, with only the edge of Bakura's teeth in the corner. The arch of an eyebrow, and Malik's hand ghosts over the wound. It is clammy, sticking to the pads of his fingers, and Malik shudders. Pulling away, he shakes his head, "it's never just pain."

Bakura shrugs, smile faded like dye in sunlight. "If you say so, it must be true," he remarks, jostling his arm under Malik's nose, "are you going to help, or not?"

Startling, Malik grabs Bakura's arm again, holding it still. "Then stop fidgeting," he snaps, voice cracking, as he wraps Bakura's arm in fresh gauze. Slowly pressing against him, Bakura snickers, letting Malik pull his arm like a puppet on a string.

It's like seeing a ghost; grabbing him by the spine, and cooling in Malik's skin so quickly the bone of him sets like steel. "Bakura-" he calls out, and then freezes with embarrassment. But it isn't as though that name belonged to Bakura alone, and Ryou flicks his gaze away from the exhibit, regarding Malik with a generous, even smile. There is a nasty voice muttering at the back of Malik's head, and it sounds like a jackal yowling, or a spurt of blood; something violent, something insistent that Bakura had the name first.

"Malik," Ryou turns, and dips his head. Hurriedly, Malik returns the gesture. "It's been too long."

He stifles the urge to point out that Ryou lives in Japan, instead he raises both eyebrows. Smiles, like it isn't pulling at his mouth. "What on earth are you doing in Luxor?" Malik laughs, like it isn't needles in his throat.

Ryou laughs back, and it sounds so easy, Malik is envious. "My father's here for work, and since school was over, I thought I'd come along," he explains. "But he's in a meeting; I'm just waiting for him."

"Ah - my sister works here," Malik offers.

"Maybe they've met," Ryou raises an eyebrow, and returns his attention to the museum piece. The stone is crumbling, the nose of the statue broken in, and Ryou's expression fades into something too even, and too clean. As though he is rinsing blood from a knife. "It's good to see you, Malik."

Malik is not in the habit of feeling nervous, nor is he in the habit of feeling desperate, and yet he sounds like both: "Let me buy you a coffee," he looks down the corridor, "there's a café-"

"I don't drink coffee."

Ryou's expression is dangerously clear, and unreadable. Fumbling for some footing in this conversation, Malik continues, "maybe strawberry juice then, or qasab - that's sugarca-"

"The Spirit drank coffee," Ryou interrupts, watching Malik with a closeness that feels invasive. That feels as though Ryou's hands are running along the crevices in Malik's back.

"I-" Malik pauses, uncomfortable. "I didn't mean anything by it." Ryou's eyes narrow, and Malik feels the hot crawl of anger inside him. It must show on his face, because Ryou looks defiant. "I just wanted to buy you a drink."

Despite everything, Malik can only think how this is like Bakura. The same ashen anger, the same feral focus, sitting in the same damn eyes. If Bakura knew where he and Ryou were divided, where they differed, Malik cannot tell. Even when Ryou asserts himself, fills his skin in a way Bakura claimed he didn't, even then, Ryou reminds Malik of the dead. And that is hideous; to see Ryou as an epitaph, carved into his own body. The tomb where Bakura had been buried between snapping smiles, and trapping laughter-

"I'm sorry." The words are grit in Malik's mouth, but he says them with feeling, aching and burning in his throat. "There are things I want to know about him."

Ryou looks away, detached again. "I knew very little about him."

The differences are clearer by the moment. "You spoke with him though."

"So?" Ryou shrugs, smiles coldly. "He never gave straight answers."

"That," Malik admits, heart darting in his ribcage, like a trapped moth, "is more than most people knew of him."

They watch each other again, and if it had been Bakura, he's certain he would have been slapped. Clawed with the palm of a hand, and prick of nails. He would have understood it as well, but Ryou doesn't speak that language. He just clicks his tongue at Malik. Whether he speaks violence or not, Ryou understands it.

"The Spirit was a shitty liar," he tells Malik.

"He fooled me."

"Not that well." Ryou decides, scuffing a hand through his hair. Offended, Ryou looks in the direction of the café and gives a thin sigh. "I like tea."

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Bakura looks at Malik with a slow, neutral expression. "Come again?" he says at last, fingers curling around the Millennium Ring. There is a flicker in Bakura's face, but Malik cannot place the emotion behind it.

Gritting his teeth - her teeth, Anzu's teeth are too small in his jaw - Malik gazes at the floor heatedly. "I need your help," he repeats, each word laced with iron. He can taste it under his tongue - Anzu's tongue, a sweeter metal - "I have lost control of my body." His face is flushed, heart crumpling in his chest - Anzu's heart, Anzu's ribcage - "If you don't help me, Rishid will die."

"Malik," Bakura hooks the Millennium Ring around his neck, lets the tines fall against his chest with a soft chitter, "people don't just lose control of their bodies." He shakes his hair out, before tilting his head, eyebrows furrowing. "Trust me."

Malik raises his eyes, glowering at Bakura's. "Do you want me to beg for you help?" he spits. "Fine - I'm begging you. Please save him, please help me." He bares his teeth at Bakura, needles cupped in the curve of his mouth. "Have I humiliated myself enough for you?"

"I don't want you to humiliate yourself," Bakura snaps, grabbing Malik by the throat and yanking him to his feet. They crash against each other, like a wave shuddering into a cliff. The ocean, hissing and spitting before Malik. "I want to know what the hell you're dragging me into."

Whether Bakura wants it or not, it is humiliating. Malik is a vein cut open, and exposed. He is letting Bakura pick, and dig around in the back of his head, and the irony is agonizing. He tries to turn his head away from Bakura. "Some kind of split personality," Malik's voice is gritting, clutching at his insides, "I'm fucked up, apparently."

Bakura shakes Malik by the scruff of his neck, until their gazes meet again. "Apparently." His gaze flicks between Malik's eyes, and a tongue darts out, licking along Bakura's teeth. "Did you know this would happen?"

"No," Malik says flatly, "I didn't."

"For an alliance of convenience, you're incredibly inconvenient."

"Please," Malik repeats, "if you don't help me, my brother will die."

The flicker in Bakura's face is surprise. "Your brother," he echoes, before laughing. "I'll be damned; not much of a family resemblance."

"Adopted." Malik wriggles loose of Bakura's hand, staggering to his feet. Bakura rocks to his, and the space between them closes up. "If you won't help me, I'll go fight that bastard off myself."

A soft snort. "In that?" Bakura nods at Anzu's body, gaze sweeping over it; the ocean licking its teeth. "How is this worth my fucking time?"

"You're dead, you have all the time in the goddamn world." Malik shows his teeth, and Bakura only sniggers at him for it. "You want something? Is that it? Is that all?" Bakura's amusement is disgusting, and Malik continues to cut open his history for Bakura's gaze. "I have the Pharaoh's memories carved into my back; take them. Take whatever you want from me-" Half-strangled, Malik watches Bakura, with the resentment and spite building inside him, like a scream.

"Memories-" Bakura asks.

"Secrets," though there is little left of them.

Now the flicker is interest, scraping over Bakura's eyes, but his mouth curves downwards, scowling. "And you were going to mention this to me - when?" He moves closer, and Malik backs up, trapped between the bed and Bakura's anger. "Everything you do is a fucking joke." The ring crackles, and Malik shoves a hand between them.

"I'm telling you now."

"Because you need something from me," Bakura's anger is like charcoal.

"Yes," Malik admits, voice strained. He glares Bakura down. "So?"

"I should leave you bleeding."

"Why?" Malik hisses. "Don't you need something from me too?" Bakura stops in front of him, and Malik drops onto the bed with a thump, still glowering at Bakura. "I'm using you, but so are you, you fucking hypocrite," he juts his chin up, throat flashing fearlessly. "Stop being squeamish, and use me up, so I can save my brother. I don't have time for your never-ending, pointless, see-through lies." He snarls at Bakura, and commands: "Use. Me. Up."

They stare at each other - Malik can feel his defiance bleeding under his skin, and Bakura looks so careful, so cautious, like Malik's words are a trip wire. At last, Bakura holds a hand out, and Malik takes it, letting Bakura pull him out of Anzu's body with the movement. The girl drops back on the bed, and Bakura grins at Malik. "I like you."

"Don't fuck with me." Bakura laughs at that, and puzzled, Malik looks down at his arm, stomach churning as he sees through it. "How did you-?" It is as though his vision is doubling into the bone of his skull, and his entire body shudders with nausea. Dizzily, Malik scrabbles for Bakura's shoulder, scrabbling for balance, and his hand winds through Bakura's skin, scratching through thin air.

Unexpectedly, Bakura catches him, arm wrapping around Malik's non-existent waist. "Just a trick of the dearly departed," he murmurs, ring chiming as he pulls Malik straight. Baring his teeth in a sly crescent, Bakura backs away from Malik, tossing his hair over his shoulder with a flick of his head. "Well?" His gaze slides back over Malik, smiling like an animal. Bakura nods at the door. "Are you going to use me, or aren't you?"

Malik's stomach clenches, like swallowing around a mouthful of salt. "Yes," he studies the reflection of Bakura's eyes, but can only see the prone shadow of Anzu in them. His face steels, mouth a metallic line. "Yes, I am."

As he carefully inks Bakura's name into the archives, he can see the double-meaning in Bakura's name. It's strange, but until he wrote it down himself, he had taken Bakura at his word, but it means Devourer of Ra, as much as it means Sunrise. He laughs, in a way he never has before. It tastes bitter, but it feels good; light-hearted, and brittle. He cannot stop for the laughter, moving like a fire through his lungs, and scorching through the halls of their home.

"Malik?" In the lamplight, he can see the glow of Isis' eyes, as she hovers in the doorway. Her face is worn with well-walked concern. "Are you crying?"

"No, no," he can feel his eyes prick, but when he turns to face Isis, his mouth is spilt into a sharp grin. "I was just- I was remembering a joke." Malik rubs the back of his hand over his eyes, catching the tears and wiping them away. "It was a bad joke, actually."

"Oh," Isis murmurs, head cocking in the doorway like a dog. "Why are you in the Clan Records?" She moves to stand by his side, leaning past him. Malik considers asking her not to read over his shoulder, but he can already feel her settle back on her heels coldly. "Malik-"

"I know."

"Why are you writing that name in here?" Isis' gaze scans the papyrus. "You can't mean to add it to the records." She breathes in sharply, before reading aloud: "Here exists a record of the Unnamed Thief Lord, who attacked the palace, and desecrated Pharaoh Akhnakanem's Grave. He was born Bakhura, of Set Ma'at-" She pulls Malik by his shoulders, until they are face to face. "This is treason."

Malik curls his lip. "The King is dead."

"Your King," Isis points out.

"Yes," Malik is tired of this, and he runs his hand across his forehead, smile gritting, "by war. Annexed- I was a rebellion he put down, not a servant." He shrugs her hands off his body. "Isis," his voice is soft, as all voices are soft when they ask for favours, "I am the Leader of our clan, not you."

He moves to replace his stylus on the paper, but Isis' hands reach out, pulling it away from him. An ugly streak is left scarred down the record. "Malik," she sounds like he is trying to choke her, "how can you say that? If you are not Atem's servant, I am not yours."

She is hurt, he realizes, and Malik stands up with a start, wrapping her abruptly in his arms. As he does so, it dawns on him that she is so much smaller than he can remember; the last time he embraced her, he could circle just above her waist, and now, he has to stoop to hold her in his arms. But how could he remember growing taller than her? They had not spoken for so long, her loyalty and his defiance carving borderlines between the two of them.

They have lost the interceding years to conflict, and now he stands over her, in more ways than one. His grip tightens around her, "Sister." Quiet, Malik tucks his head into the groove of her shoulders, and when he feels her quivering against him, he soothes a hand through her hair. "Please do this for me."

She stiffens, "because you ask it of me?" The anger, and pain etches in her voice.

"Yes," he murmurs, swallowing, "because I have asked." She pulls away from him, sharp angles under his hands. He lets her go, their embrace breaking, and she seizes the papyrus. Eyes burning, she moves it towards the oil lamp he had been writing by. "I'm not asking you to kill the King," he sighs.

"His name was purposefully removed from the archives," Isis defends, "we should honour that."

"Bakura was a vindictive, old bastard," Malik tells her, anger lighting up in his voice, "and the Priests who stripped him of his name - his very ren - were just as fucking vindictive." He gestures at the paper. "Burning that is letting the past overshadow us again." Malik holds his hand out for the sheet. "I know I'm right, and so do you."

"We have no right-"

"No," Malik cuts over her. "They had no right to decide who moves into the next life." He watches her, gaze unwavering. "This is blasphemous."

Isis falters, but Malik knows he's won, because despite himself, he is savouring victory. "You don't believe in the Gods."

"I doubt their authority," Malik corrects, giving a wry smile. He remembers the crack of anger that struck Rishid down, and the answering bay of it from the Ra Card waiting in his own deck, "I've seen magic; why not divinity?" He gestures for the paper again, fingers beckoning for Isis. "Sister, you can't abandon someone to limbo, because of something that happened more than a thousand years ago."

Looking between Malik, and the papyrus, Isis finally laughs, crying into the sound. "If I burn this, you would only write it again, wouldn't you?" She gives him the record, jutting her head up to look him the eyes. "Have it then," she tells him, "You're right, of course you are, I know you are."

Setting it onto the writing table, Malik leans forward to hold Isis again. "First time for everything," he murmurs, and in his arms, Isis laughs.

As he cups the phone against his ear, Malik realizes he expected this. To pretend he didn't is untrue, and when Bakura's voice aches with anger, and betrayal, he realizes he wants this. The promise, red-written in Bakura's pain, that Malik matters. He feels heavy; the weight of having impact, cracking bones beneath his actions, breaking skin.

"You fucking dog," Bakura strains, cussing over the sound of the ocean. "Did you give him my ring, before or after you licked his feet?"

"I never bowed my head." Malik can hear his earring scrape the cellphone. There is the smell of salt in the air, and the cold touch of wind in his hair. The boat rocks, and a fleck of water stings across his cheek. "I did what I had needed to survive." The fury sparks in Malik; even after everything, the feeling of fire is faltering in his flesh. "You're the great survivor - you understand what I did."

"Survivor?" Bakura echoes, laughs like he's been carved out, hollowed by the river inside his veins. "You call this surviving?" He huffs, agonized, and angered. "I'm not a fucking coward."

"I lost," Malik spits.

"You're a fucking liar." There's a brutal laugh at that, breath beaten out of Bakura. "You're such a goddamn liar, Malik."

He bristles, lips drawing back to show his teeth. "I'm not the one hiding in someone else's skin," he switches the phone to his other ear, throat stinging. "That Ryou shit?" Malik scoffs. "Nothing that comes out of your mouth is clean."

Bakura falls quiet, and Malik thumbs the phone, considering hanging up, but then Bakura sneers. It comes soft, and sore, but fierce all the same. "I know the boundary lines between us; I know where we break." His voice is cold, and quiet, but there is an eagerness that reminds Malik of a wolf. "You sure you know who lives inside your mirror?"

"Fuck off," Malik hisses. His insides twist, and squirm, like a nest of serpents has burrowed into the pliant, palpable parts of him, "The Pharaoh saved my life."

"He spared your life," Bakura digs in, words glinting like glass, "It's not the same thing."

"And?" Malik bites out, "If the lion doesn't eat you, you don't hunt it down."

There is a thin pause, Bakura weighing the truth against the sheer heart in their words. At last, he admits, "I see."

"No you don't," Malik's snarl comes out unexpectedly, like a gush of blood from a wound. A dirty bite under his skin. "You don't fucking see."

"Of course I don't," the answer is a murmur, "I don't understand how this can make you happy."

"Because you're so satisfied," Malik asks, trying to dig into Bakura. Pry him open by the ribs, pull his teeth out, take something from the exchange. "Because in all your centuries of planning, and hating, and wanting, you feel happy?" The tightness is in his chest, holding his lungs in a vice. "Happy of all things? I don't think you feel that," he laughs, choking the sound out, "but then, it's only pain, right?"

He expects it when Bakura hangs up, and in disgust, Malik chucks the phone into the sea. It is neither satisfying, nor painful, and Malik watches the water for a long time, before he returns below deck.

Malik has carried one King into the afterlife, what is one more? At least Bakura is a light chain around his neck, a skinny cartouche hanging by his collarbone, instead of someone he must carry on his back. At least he chose this, he decides, holding the slim gold between his thumb, and index finger. "I don't understand why he told me his name was Sunrise."

"That was his name, wasn't it?" Isis rests her elbows over the balcony, hair loose and unbound in the early hour.

He has the distinct impression she doesn't want to be here, and she doesn't want to talk about this. Despite that, he turns his head to look at her, "Bakura never gave clear answers." The cartouche slips out of his fingers, dropping against his chest. "I don't think he even knew how."

"Well," Isis raises a hand to shield her eyes from the growing sunlight, "if you say so."

He snorts, looking out into the dawn. "You don't agree?"

"No, I don't." She turns about, leaning back against the edge. Malik has the startling thought of shoving her over the side, and he blushes at the sheer, needless violence of the idea. "He was a lonely, pitiful creature." She brushes a stray hair away from her face, voice slow, uncomfortable at the idea of her brother, and the Spirit. "He must have been so desperate for you..."

Malik's mouth sets in a sharp line. "There was nothing pitiful about him." In the flashing light, Malik's eyes are almost amber. "He was so alive-"

"He was dead, Malik," she reminds him.

"So?" He juts his chin up, defiant. "I was born dead, and buried, and still drawing breath; Bakura was better than life, greater than it."

Sadness curls Isis' mouth into a smile. "If he was so alive, then why did he save Rishid for you? If not life, what did he find in you?"

The gold is cold against Malik's chest, a tendril of chill reaching under his skin, cragging claws against his heart. He can feel it, like the touch of nails. "I don't know," Malik reaches down to hold the cartouche. The edges cut into his palm when he clenches around the metal. "Is it so bad to think he just liked me?"

"No, it's not so bad," Isis murmurs gently, embarrassed by her own implication. "I didn't mean that he couldn't; I never knew him, after-all." She reaches out to touch the arch of Malik's shoulder. "I just meant that after so many years, how could a Spirit want anyone who didn't make him feel alive again?" Her hand strokes his bare skin soothingly, warmth flooding into him. "I think what you are doing is admirable."

His hand loosens on the cartouche, and he looks down to read Bakura's name again. The glyphs burn gold when he turns it in the light of the dawn. Maybe Isis was right; that Bakura was the aftertaste of a long-dead grief, and when Malik touched him, he came alive again for a moment. And when Malik had withdrew, Bakura had only ever been a burial ground; barren earth, and ashen soil.

Bakura is gone, and he deserves it. He deserves it the way you fire a gunshot into a swarm of jackals, lace a knife through the skull of a snake, the way you put a dying animal down. Down, down deep and bury the damn thing. Bakura is dead, and it is a long-time coming.

The Pharaoh has a pretty silver cartouche, and his name glitters in the bright of the afterlife. Shining as though it's made of gold: Atem. Atem, Pharaoh Atem, Morning and Evening Star-

Bakura, grinning in the light of dawn. Bakura, a truth wrapped in a lie inside a truth, like a snake coiling and coiling until it can swallow itself whole. Bakura drawing his name in the dirt with ill-practiced handwriting, and a peasant's attempt at a royal determinative. Bakura, all sunlit and shadow-cast. Bakura. Dead.

Both of them dead, and Malik?

Alive, watching Atem step forward into the next life, staring at his back as it turns on Malik, because here is a Star. Here is the Sky. Here is the gleam of silver, with gold burning in his hair. Here is the King with his name soul-wrote about his throat.

And Bakura is ash, and laughter, and gold; fire and water; sun and shadow, deservedly drowning between the shores.

Malik's chest tightens, tightens sharply, tightens like his heart is a dead weight in his chest. Alive, and unable to draw a single breath in, until the grace of Atem's death dies, and the tomb collapses around them.

"Don't try to stop me," Malik says thickly, squaring his shoulders. The heat of the day is sliding into the west, and where it presses against the back of his neck, his skin prickles. "This is something I have to do. I don't care if there's nothing out there but dust." He tosses his head to the horizon, eyes narrowing in the bright light. In the white sand, the sun has thrown up akhet-arcs ahead of him, and Malik can feel it in his blood. It burns, and aches like venom - pulling Malik towards it, as it has always done.

But Rishid is still there behind him, silent and demanding as he has always been. Flicking his head back towards him, Malik asks sharply: "Did Isis put you up to this?"

His brother sighs, green eyes turned golden with the sunset uncurled before them. Looking at him, Malik can taste Rishid's anger, even his shame like an acrid aftertaste, and abruptly, he remembers that Rishid's patience is only great, not infinite. Regretful, Malik tucks the cartouche under his collar, turning to look at his brother directly. "Of course she didn't. You are your own." Malik hesitates towards the sunlight, his heart throbbing in his throat. "Rishid... I have to."

"But there is nothing for you there," Rishid murmurs.

"Hotep," Malik can't help but smile. "Maybe."

Weakly, movements dull, Rishid shifts from foot to foot, wringing his hands at Malik. "There is no peace for you out there, Habibi. Come home. You cannot grieve him for a lifetime."

The sun is sweating into night behind them, as Rishid waits for Malik to come to his senses, but Rishid will be left waiting a long time. After-all, Malik has never known sense. The sunlight is burning in his eyes, and he is still reaching after it. He has carried one man into the afterlife, and he can still drag another one if he has to.

"I already have peace," Malik tears his gaze away from the horizon again, and smiles at Rishid with his teeth gleaming in his mouth. "I don't need any more. I don't want any more. I'm trying to find some peace for Bakura."

"Bakura is dead!" Rishid's voice cracks, like a dropped glass leeching water into the sand.

He turns like a bone breaking and snarls, "You think I don't know that?" Malik is breathing heavily, too heavily by far, the weight drawing his shoulders tightly. There is sand gritting in his mouth, and he screams at Rishid. "I know he's dead! Why am I the only one who cares about that?"

A beat, like his heart burning in his throat, because it hits him. Hits him how the questions have been building under his skin. Hits him how cold history is, how deep it has buried Bakura in water, and sand, and darkness when his name meant Sunrise. When he was forged in fire, and blood, and this is no burial. This is not peace.

The fire catches in Malik again, finally, at last, like he can breathe again. Imperiously he shows his teeth to his brother, laughing like wildfire and turns back towards the dusk. "This," he tells Rishid, "is not about love."

The Spirit's voice is softer in the dark somehow, although how, or why Malik cannot tell. Only that it has him off-guard when the Spirit rests his arms over the boat's guardrail, stares out across the river and laughs gently. It is a pretty, pretty sound, and it confuses Malik. Replaces certainty with fascination. Confidence with eagerness. "Have you ever seen so much water in your life?" The Spirit asks him.

He speaks in Egyptian, not Japanese, not even Arabic, but the language Malik was raised with. Accented, and quick-paced, but as familiar as the darkness around them. As easily understood as the shiver that runs down Malik's spine when he turns to look at the Spirit's gleaming eyes. They are nearly silver in the light reflecting off the river, and Malik can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can't-

"What?" The Spirit crooks a grin at him. "I've heard you speak this to your servant."

"My...servant?" Japanese. Instinctive, like reaching for a weapon.

A dismissive gesture of the Spirit's gaze towards the back of the boat. "The tall one, with the servant markings on his face," he licks his teeth, and smirks at Malik, "I know you can speak this." Playful, the Spirit reaches out to nudge Malik, running his nails along Malik's arm. Where the Spirit touches him, he feels cold, but there is a heat in the well of Malik's chest. There is so much heat in him, so much fire, so much sunlight, and it makes his mouth run dry.

"...It is nothing like the open water," Malik says at last, holding that arm out towards the ocean. "This is just a river. There- it opens. Like a throat."

"Ah," The Spirit laughs at him again, "If you say so, it must be true." Malik flushes, angered, and the Spirit waves his hand coolly. "Peace, peace. I've seen it. You have such a strange way of seeing things," he settles his head in the curve of his arms, eyes lidding. "I could live three thousand years, and you would still surprise me, Partner."

Nervous - no, excited even, a thrill dancing down his spine, burning in his blood - Malik adjusts his gold, turning it around his wrist once, twice, before asking. "Is that how old you are?" Someone who speaks Egyptian better than Malik. Someone bright, and blurring with magic. Someone as confusing closed, as they are open. How can this not be a confession? The Spirit isn't saying anything, and Malik prompts him. Prompts him with that same, scratch-like touch to the arm. "Spirit?"

"Bakura."

"What?" Malik's hand pulls away, burned.

"My name is Bakura," he smiles at Malik, a sharp gesture, even in the shadows. "It means Sunrise."

Malik adapts his retort from the aphorism, "إذا ساء فعل المرء ساءت ظنونه وَصَدَّقَ ما يعتاده من توهم إذا سأل ألحف وإن سئل سوّف إذا سلمت من الأسد فلا تطمع في صيده " meaning "If you are spared from the lion, do not then hunt it."