Disclaimer - I don't own Yu-gi-oh, and I don't own The Dreaming. This is not a songfic. I repeat, this is not a songfic. The lyrics at the end are just for closure.

During Battle City, he'd been nothing but a pawn; something to use to steal the power of the Pharaoh away from Yuugi's Other. He'd been an annoyance, especially when Malik lost his body and had to resort to begging to get any help, willing to even go so far as to destroy his own body in order to destroy the darkness within it. Malik's offer of the Rod for the duel had been met with derision, but the entity had eventually roused himself and fought; fought and lost, leaving Malik's hopes to reside in the one person he despised.

During Battle City, he'd been arrogant, rude, sarcastic, pretentious and, above all else, mad. A glint of lunacy had never died in those dark eyes, only muted for a time as he pretended to be his surface self, his acting skills beyond anything Malik would have expected. He fooled all of the boy's friends and, if Malik hadn't known, he would have been fooled, too.

During Battle City, he was an enemy.

After Battle City…well, that was an entirely different story.

He was the complete opposite of his parasite – gentle, kind, innocent, oblivious, the type of boy anyone could get along with and, ultimately, fall for. At first, Malik didn't understand him; how could a person be so damn passive about their lives, so apathetic about what was going on around them, accepting of everything that happened? But Malik wound up learning a lot from the boy during the brief trip back to Egypt on the cramped quarters of the helicopter.

He learned enough that he hadn't wanted to leave.

The choice hadn't been his though – what choices in his life ever had been his? – and he'd been dragged away by his brother and sister, both determined to set out and rebuild their lives. Malik couldn't help looking back, straining for the last glimpse of the boy who had taught him how to feel.

After Battle City, he was an enigma wrapped in light.

He didn't know how long it was that he spent childishly fighting against his sister, refusing to integrate with society, distrusting everybody he saw. He knew, just knew, that if he had the gentle boy at his side, everything would have been all right. Perhaps then, he could have learned to trust and love again. It was hard to accept his new life when he knew the old Ghouls were hovering, just out of sight, waiting to exact their revenge.

And yet, that revenge never came, and Malik slowly began to calm down.

That was when he received the phone call from Yuugi – the Items had been collected, the God Cards were in his hands, and he was finally ready to seek the Pharaoh's memories. Bitterness welled up inside him, not an unfamiliar feeling but an unwelcome one, and he had to pass the phone to Isis. It was still their duty to aid the Pharaoh, but he didn't want to.

All he wanted was to stare into those dark, fathomless eyes and feel warm again.

Yuugi arrived, along with almost all of his friends, and Malik had to hide his disappointment and cover his feelings with a smile and help them along. After all, the sooner all of this was over and done with, the sooner he could at least try to pull together the shattered pieces of his life. Maybe that was what he had been waiting for all this time – completion, an end to the story, so that he could be reborn.

As they watched Yuugi and his friends descend into the darkness, Malik glimpsed out of the corner of his eye Rishid and Isis holding hands. The sight, while it should have made him feel pleased – Rishid had always wanted to be family, after all, and who would treat his sister better? – it only enflamed his anger. He felt as if he would never have that, the affection, faith, love, because he couldn't bring himself to trust.

Because he couldn't bring himself to forget a pair of brown eyes that at first he had pitied, and now…

Later that day – was it really the same day, or had time just melted together? – he was there, with the group, almost everyone was there, and they were crying. Well, a good majority of them were, and he didn't understand that, either. Hadn't they been seeking the Pharaoh's memory all this time? What had they expected to happen when the Pharaoh finally found his place? His thoughts were unable to focus properly on the issue at hand because he was there.

Bakura.

Everything else was just background noise. Jounouchi was blustering, Anzu was crying, Yuugi was crying, Honda was trying to soothe the both of them and hide the fact that he was crying too. Seto was the only one who appeared unaffected, which didn't surprise him in the least; he didn't think anything short of the apocalypse would exact a reaction out of that man, and only then if his darling little brother had been hurt. But none of that mattered, because he was staring at him, those dark eyes that accepted and never judged him.

Bakura knew. He knew the effect he'd had on Malik, and in that moment, he tried to hate the white-haired boy. All this time the boy had known, and hadn't made one single effort to get into contact with him, had just let him sit and stew and become nearly torn apart by himself.

Malik's hatred tried valiantly to push its way to the forefront, a warm, familiar sensation caressing his skin and soothing his nerves. It was hard rejecting it, but he knew, as he continued to stare at Bakura, that it would be worth it.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the boy walked over to him, tilting his head a little to maintain the surprisingly intimate eye contact. "Malik-kun," he said softly.

"Bakura."

A ghost of a smile flitted across those pale lips. "I told you before, call me Ryou."

"No one else calls you that."

"That was the point."

Malik twitched but repressed his initially sarcastic, possibly nasty, response. As if starting over, he said, "Ryou."

"Malik-kun."

"If I'm going to call you Ryou, you're going to call me Malik."

The smile appeared again briefly. "All right, Malik."

That was as far as he got before Malik simply couldn't take it anymore. Grabbing the boy by the shoulders, heedless of the people around them staring, he drew Bakura up and kissed him, roughly, demandingly, possessively. And, to his delight, the boy kissed him back, arms slipping around him, offering him the acceptance and warmth he had been lacking.

When they finally separated, flushed and out of breath, Malik refused to loosen his grasp, even tightening it until the boy squirmed. "You're not leaving me again," he whispered into the pale ear. "I won't let you."

"I never planned on it."

After Battle City, Bakura was a friend.

After the story had ended, the last pages read, the book closed, he was more.

/The writing is on the wall
This is the end to it all
But I won't let you go
Before I let you know
My love for you will never die/

The Dreaming