A/N: This is ancient, and I want it off my computer, so bluh. I think I just ship the whole world with Malik. XD Lyrics are by Brand New.
Disclaimer: Yep.
And they're scared that we know
all the crimes they commit
Who they'll kiss before they get home
The room smells like alcohol, and the smoke-tinted air is stale with boredom and the tinny buzz coming from the radio in the corner. Malik sits at the bar and kicks his heels against the metal legs of the stool, debating whether or not he can get away with bribing the bartender for another shot without being carded. He swirls his finger around the almost-empty glass in front of him and listens disinterestedly to the argument breaking out behind him; something about money and drugs and a man's loaded gun.
He doesn't have anywhere to be tonight, but most people here would probably take him home, if he asked. Experimentally, he tips his head to the side and rests his chin on his hands with an audible sigh. A few heads turn.
He's not really in the mood.
Malik knows that he's technically not supposed to be here. He's not old enough to drink (legally), he's supposed to work tomorrow, and it's not like he ever missed the bar brawls, the people tripping over their own tongues with drunken propositions, or the cold rush of alcohol down his throat.
Something shatters in the background behind him.
Well. He didn't miss it much.
Malik knows, on some level, that he used to be them. Not them exactly, because there were—there are—differences, but he was close. He was the one with the plans and the plots and the guns and the change-the-world attitude. He had followers. He had ideas.
Now he has a legal driver's license that's going to expire in three days, a crappy apartment in a shit part of town, and the most badass thing he can do on the weekends is go bar hopping and bribe people into giving him alcohol.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Fuck that noise.
Malik sighs again—this time for real—and pushes the glass away from him, nodding at the bartender. He almost gets up, but—
Someone is behind him.
He doesn't miss the signs, not after so many years of looking for them. The way the light, reflected off the bar in rainbow pools of spilled alcohol, shifts subtly; the creak of a floorboard that he can feel moving under his seat; the huff of breath just a little too close to his neck.
"What," Malik says.
The person behind him chuckles. "Really, it's been three years, and all you can think of to say is 'what'?"
Malik sits just a little straighter and wraps his fingers back around the glass in front of him. "It could be worse. I could be begging you not to plunge a knife through my back."
"Touché," the voice says, and Malik can just picture that shit-eating grin.
He taps his fingers against the glass in time to the song floating towards him from the radio. One, two, tap. Three, four, tap.
Fuck, who picked this song? This is a really shitty song. Horrible. It's so terrible it shouldn't even be—
The person behind him doesn't move.
Malik caves first. He's out of practice.
"Hello, Bakura."
Bakura pulls his hands off of Malik's shoulders and slides in next to him at the bar. "Now, that's more like it," he says, eyes gleaming. "And here I was, beginning to think that you didn't miss me at all."
"I didn't," Malik says stiffly, and then, "Why are you here?"
Bakura leans his elbow against the bar and looks at him intently. "Maybe I just wanted to see you."
"Hah," Malik says, and wishes for another shot: he'd look quite dramatic knocking one back just now. Like he doesn't give a shit. And it would probably help steady his hands.
"Don't you want to know how I got back from the realm of the perpetually-doomed?"
"No," Malik says, standing up. Yes. "Actually, I want to get as far away from you as possible. You're nothing but trouble—" and how many damsels in distress have used that line before? Fuck. He reaches for his jacket, but Bakura grabs him, his long, thin fingers curling around Malik's wrist. He doesn't let go, just stares at Malik's hand curiously. His eyes are sharp, or maybe the years have softened them and Malik just can't tell in the darkness of the bar.
"Let go of me," Malik says. Bakura ignores him.
"I mean it. I don't want to talk to you."
"And why is that?" Bakura murmurs.
When Malik doesn't answer, Bakura smiles slowly, closing his eyes and leaning back like something has finally clicked into place. "Ah. I see."
"See what?" Malik says, watching him.
"How long has it been now?" Bakura asks instead of answering him, eyes still shut. "About three years, right? Since Battle City, I mean. Roughly two since the Memory World, but that doesn't really count, now does it, since I didn't get to see you then anyway. My goodness, how you've grown. Tell me, did you side with the dear Pharaoh during all of that charming business? I'm afraid I wasn't in much of a position to ask."
"Get to the point, Bakura."
"You're reformed now, aren't you, Malik? Got a pardon from his highness?"
"That's none of your business," Malik snaps, yanking his wrist out of Bakura's grip.
Bakura cracks one eye open and peers up at Malik. "Christ. When the hell did you get so boring?"
Malik brings a hand up and runs it slowly over his face. "God damn you, Bakura." And he hates this, he hates how infuriated he is, how fucking smug Bakura looks. "God fucking damn you." He's leaving now, yes, he's just going to walk away—
Bakura grins. "What's wrong, Malik? Have to go to work tomorrow with the rest of the mind-numbingly dull, moral citizens of Domino?"
"Yes, actually." Yes, he has to get up and go to work at a job he hates surrounded by the fucking Pharaoh and all of his friends, every single day, for the rest of his life, because he doesn't do this anymore. He doesn't get caught up in conversations with people who should be dead, and he doesn't think about how fucking much he missed them. And he doesn't swear like a sailor anymore because he works in a game shop, for Chrissakes, surrounded by kids who yell and scream and—
"Malik."
"What!" Malik snaps, spinning on his heel to face Bakura. "What, what the hell do you want, just tell me so that I can fucking leave already—"
But Bakura has already stood up, the smirk gone from his face. He stands there, dangerously close, and Malik stops breathing, just for a second, as Bakura's breath ghosts over his mouth and their eyes lock.
"You make the worst reformed villain I've ever met."
Malik doesn't know what to say, so he just mumbles, "Yeah, well. Look at you. Reduced to stalking teenagers in bars."
"Mm." Bakura's fingers rest on the back of Malik's neck, and what a sight they must be. Standing at the edge of a bar, arms around each other like they don't quite know where to put them, almost kissing, arguing; the jacket in Malik's hand pressed between them like a chaperone.
"Actually," Bakura says, "I was hoping you could help me out."
Malik huffs. "Of course. Of course you were. Did I not make this clear, Bakura? I'm not doing this take-over-the-world nonsense with you. I learned my lesson, remember?"
Bakura looks pointedly at the miniscule space between them. "Oh yes. Obviously."
Malik scowls and detangles himself from Bakura's hold, dropping back down onto the bar stool.
"It's simple, really," Bakura says, sitting down next to him and waving the bartender away. "No ancient artifacts or bloody-minded Pharaohs involved this time, I promise."
"You'll forgive me if I don't believe that," Malik says.
"I need money," Bakura says, "to stay in this world. Obviously, I'm not about to get a job, so..."
"So go rob a bank or something," Malik says.
Bakura smiles. "But bank robbing is no fun alone, Malik." He runs his finger down Malik's arm.
Malik pushes him away. "I told you: I am done partaking in anything illegal. I'm not about to get my ass thrown in jail because of you. Go by yourself, or better yet, find some other impressionable moron to corrupt."
"I could," Bakura agrees, "but then I'd be abandoning a fellow human being in his time of need, and you know I could never do that."
"I am not 'in need,'" Malik snaps.
Bakura pretends to look earnest. "Oh, but you are. You're utterly miserable playing the moral, upstanding citizen. What do you do all day, Malik? Sit on the couch and play X-Box?"
"X-Box is better than jail," Malik mumbles.
"Oh, nonsense. Jail builds character."
"It's better than the Shadow Realm, too," Malik says. He looks pointedly at Bakura. "Are you going to tell me about that, by the way?"
"In good time, Malik." Bakura offers him a hand. "Unfortunately, I can't sit in this bar all night. Are you coming with me?"
Malik looks at him. On one hand: jail, injury, being fired, guilty conscience...
On the other hand: adventure, relief of this horrible, horrible boredom, something fun for the first time in three years...
When was the last time he had to deal with a guilty conscience, anyway?
Malik sighs. And then he takes Bakura's hand. "Okay. Okay, fine. Christ, I can't believe I'm doing this."
Bakura laughs, loud enough to attract the attention of several people around them. "Oh, Malik. We're going to have fun."
And that's what scares me, Malik thinks, allowing himself to be dragged out into the night.
They stumble into parking lot, hit with a blast of cold air as soon as Bakura shoves the door open. Malik yanks his jacket more tightly around his shoulders and says, "Where are we going?"
"To rob a bank," Bakura says, eyes flicking around the lot, searching for something. "I thought we'd established this."
"Bullshit," Malik says. "That's way too low-key for you."
"Nonsense."
"What are you looking for?"
"A ride," Bakura says as his eyes lock on something the distance and he starts dragging Malik across the parking lot. "Here, there's a bus stop right across the street."
"What?"
"You think I'm going to walk all the way to the nearest bank?"
"You're not serious about that, right?" Malik refrains from asking how Bakura even got here in the first place, since he's pretty sure it would involve something unpleasant. "I mean, we're not exactly in ancient Egypt, these things have security—"
"You think I don't know that?"
"I don't think you know anything," Malik mutters, and tucks his gloved hands back into his pocket, letting Bakura pull him through the November air.
"This isn't a bank," Malik says when they get off the bus.
"No, it's not," Bakura says.
"This is my apartment," Malik says.
Bakura's grin is positively feral. "Why, so it is."
They end up on the couch, pressed too close in a mockery of an embrace. The lack of cheap alcohol present is a glaring flaw in their planning, which Malik points out without hesitation, since it's not like they ever had moments to ruin in the first place— and Bakura laughs sharply and points out that hasn't Malik had enough already?
Malik responds by driving his knee into Bakura's abdomen, and the next ten minutes are less sexy than they are filled with elbows and knees caught in a tangle of not-quite-awkward— and Bakura's right, they've both had too much to drink; everything's a bit of a haze, the alcohol pushing at their edges like the worn-out couch cushions scattered around them when Malik ends up on the floor with Bakura bent over him, laughter crinkled around the edges of his eyes.
He's sharp, Bakura is, pointed face and angled collar bone, long fingers caught around Malik's wrist— and those eyes cut through him like any kind of knife. Malik licks at his lips and tries to grin back up at him, except it gets caught a little around the corner of his mouth when Bakura presses down on him and kisses him.
It's hot and fast and tastes like the gin and tonic Bakura left back at the bar. So he arches up into it, because why the fuck not? What else has he been doing these past years? Goddamn nothing, that's what. Goddamn nothing, and it loops in his mind when Bakura digs his nails into his arms
"You," Bakura breathes into him, "are a downright mess."
"I blame everything on you and then some," Malik says back, and pulls him down again.
Malik's going to be so hung over tomorrow. He can practically feel the headache already clobbering at his brain. He knows Bakura will be fine, because Bakura's always fine. Apparently, anyway—and oh, yeah, they were supposed to talk about that.
"Wait," Malik mumbles. "Hey, wait a minute, hold on."
Bakura glares at him. "What?"
"You," Malik says, "you were going to tell me how you got back."
Bakura rolls his eyes. "Now?"
"Now," Malik says, and shoves him off.
"Well, you're still impatient as ever," Bakura says. "Tell me, how many times has that almost gotten you killed, now?"
"Ninety-nine and counting," Malik says, stumbling to his feet and scrubbing a hand over his eyes. He starts towards the kitchen. "I'm getting water, you want something?"
Bakura waves a hand and slumps back against the couch. "Yes, slave, bring me a beverage."
"Okay, your majesty. Want a little 'fuck you' to go with it?"
Bakura's grin is disgusting. "Yes, please."
"Okay, so what?" Malik says when he returns from digging two bottles of water out of the deep recesses of his refrigerator. He would have gone for tap, but that faucet's nasty and god only knows what's coating the inside, and anyway, he's pretty sure he forgot to pay the water bill this month, so bottles it is, and if Bakura cares, he can fuck off and crash somewhere that's not Malik's apartment.
Bakura doesn't care. Right now, he doesn't look like he cares about anything, draped so haphazardly against the back of Malik's couch, bony elbows propped up against the cushions. His legs are stretched out in front of him, and for the first time Malik notices that his pants are a little too short.
Here he is the King of Thieves; darkness himself is sprawled out on Malik's floor, and his socks don't even match.
"Do you believe in second chances?" he asks when Malik sits down next to him and passes him a bottle.
"No," Malik says.
"What do you call the life you're living?"
"A continuation," Malik says honestly, a little uncomfortably. "It's not like I ever made some big loop around and retry everything I messed up. You can't just… start over. You can't erase the past or any of that bullshit. I fucked up, I moved on, but I didn't just… I mean, there are no do-overs. No 'restart' button or any of that." Fuck it, he's rambling, but he's a little drunk and a little tired and half the world stopped making any sense half an hour ago.
"Good," Bakura says, nodding in approval. "Good. There are no second chances."
Malik waits for Bakura to elaborate. Bakura ignores him rolls the water bottle between his hands, making the plastic crunch.
Malik wonders if this is ground he should even be treading. "Is this… a second chance?"
"Yes," Bakura says.
Fuck it. "You just said there were no—"
"I know what I said, Malik."
"Then do you want to tell me what the fuck you mean?"
"What I mean," Bakura says slowly, "is that I don't know."
"Fuck, I'm sorry, this is too confusing to be drunk for. Or, something like that sentence. What the hell are you even talking about?"
"Look. There are no such things as second changes. However, someone somewhere seemed to have overlooked that teeny, tiny little detail and dropped me ass-first back onto this stupid, disgustingly modern version of Earth. I don't know why. I don't care why. I woke up in the Shadow Realm. Then I woke up out of the Shadow Realm. I don't even remember going to sleep. Clearly, Malik, I am completely in the dark."
He's frustrated, Malik realizes. He's confused, and that makes him angry, because if there was one thing Bakura prided himself on—and there sure as hell was more than one thing, so this one definitely makes the list—it was knowing the game. Always being one step ahead, or two, or three, or as many as he needed to be to cut his opponent's feet out from under them. He was the chess master, the manipulator.
Now, he's the pawn, the puppet, and he doesn't like it.
"Pharaoh's back too," Malik says. He doesn't know how, but it falls out of his mouth before he can catch it, and Bakura's face contracts into something unpleasant.
"What?"
Malik wipes his mouth and caps the water bottle. "Pharaoh's back. Showed up maybe three weeks ago? I don't remember. Anyway, he lives with Yugi now."
"What are you trying to accomplish by telling me this? Do you want me to go out and murder him for you or something?"
Malik punches him in the shoulder. "I don't know, maybe so that you know you're not the only one?" So that he feels less lost, less like having to stumble randomly in the dark? Malik doesn't know. He doesn't give a fuck, and hey, that feels kind of good. There's an old familiarity in not giving a fuck.
Bakura clutches his heart. "You kindness knows no bounds."
"Fuck off, asshole," Malik laughs, and hey, that feels kind of good, too. "So are you staying?" he asks finally. "Are you stuck in this mortal coil for good now?"
"That depends," Bakura says.
"On?"
"On whether or not some higher being has another other great, ineffable plan for me."
"Oh," Malik says. "What was it like, then? Being reincarnated?"
"Uneventful," Bakura says. "I don't remember it."
They drop into silence. Malik picks lint out of his carpeting and tries to think of something to say. Thing is, they never had anything to say before. Their arrangement wasn't friendly, and it small talk wasn't something that fit easily between the cracks of their planning and scheming and general bitching at each other. Their interactions were mostly limited to card games, arguments, and sometimes sex, if they had nothing better to do—which wasn't often, they were busy as fuck—but still. It wasn't exactly the best ground to lay a relationship on.
Now that's funny. Relationship. That's so fucking funny, it almost loops right back around to "not." They never had a relationship. Nothing they did ever even implied it, which is why Malik starts laughing at his brain's own idiocy, and Bakura gives him a strange look.
"What the hell," he asks, "is so funny?"
Malik just snorts and doubles over—and okay, he's drunker than he thought. Oops.
"You," he manages to gasp out. "You and me, and… and… white goddamn picked fences—" he trails off again, too busy trying to breath to form coherent sentences.
"You are incredibly strange," Bakura murmurs.
And isn't that just the thing?
They're both incredibly strange. Malik has mood swings, weird bouts of violence that make him scream and throw things, that make his neighbors look at him funny whenever he leaves the apartment. He curls in on himself sometimes, too, when he's alone, because sometimes the thoughts catch up and the goddamn ghosts of the past don't like to remember that they're supposed to be dead. And Bakura…
Well. Malik's never really understood Bakura.
There was nothing to understand. He was infuriating, desperately, achingly beautiful, nothing that anyone could ever put their hands around. An enigma, a paradox, everything indescribable….
And now… now he's not. Slumped against the couch in his mismatched socks.
Malik leans in and kisses him.
There's nothing else he can do. Sanity is disregarded, because hell, why should he even try anymore? Bakura's everywhere, in his mind, pounding against his ribcage, messing with everything normal Malik's ever tried to have in his life, every last resemblance of a new beginning. He drags the past right up to Malik's fucking doorstep, and what more can he do? He kisses Bakura with everything he has, teeth and lips and fingernails dragging against the white of his skin. He hasn't poured everything into anything in years, and it's terrifying.
Bakura laughs, sharp and hard, and pulls Malik down.
It's also pretty awesome.
"I'm going to destroy you," Bakura mutters.
"I doubt it," Malik says.
"Do you? I thought I was nothing but trouble?"
"You are," Malik says. "You are trouble's very definition."
"And?"
"And when did you get so boring?"
"Touché," Bakura grins, and oh, hell.
This is going to be fun.