Lots of coffee and procrastination brought this about. All I can do is write scummy alleyway thiefshipping fic, apparently.
This is supposed to be set at some point in Season 5, but it's been a looong time since I've seen it, so sorry if this is inaccurate as hell.
Beta'd by the ohso lovely neverbirds, who you should go read. Like, now.
It's kind of fitting that, in the end, they end up here. The universe is gold and yellow and soft beneath their feet. The wind is hot. It's familiar feeling. One that haunts.
Malik has the sun on his back and he makes the mistake of wandering through the marketplace. Ishizu said it would be good for him. Rishid smiled and said, go on your own. We'll be here. We'll be at home, he said. Home is now a two bedroom cement building in the middle of the desert. Rishid has to sleep on a couch in the living room. It's not the best home Malik's ever had, but it's better than a hole in the ground. The wind kicks up and he gets sand in his mouth.
He spits, and tries to not remember this. There are lots of people huddled together and colorful stalls and Malik forcefully pulls his eyes away from the glossy magazine covers. The man behind the counter is shouting at him, sales and offers and deals. Buy two get one free. Malik keeps walking. He ignores the shadows that follow him.
It's a crowded little street full of moving bodies and garbled screams. He thinks he recognizes everyone he sees. He does not know these people. Malik does not know many people. Every smiling child he passes makes him ache. He did not want to come to Egypt.
The shops are bigger now than they were; rows and rows of scattered merchants and food vendors. A woman selling flowers. A man selling antiques. He's admiring the man's stall, all dusty golden things, when a hand sinks violently into the meat of his forearm. It feels like he's got claws in him, and when he turns around he sees a ghost. Malik blinks, and this figure—all in white—blinks back. The man is covered in cotton; sheets and sheets of fabric constrict him. It's probably for the sun. The man is pale.
"Malik," the man says. Malik closes his eyes and his tongue swells in his mouth. "come with me." The hand slips to his wrist and grabs.
Malik does not follow orders. He gives them. He sits with his golden scepter and commands. Malik does not like to get his hands dirty. But. right now, they're covered with sweat and sand and Bakura's fingers.
In the end, he only follows because there's a voice pulling on the base of his skull that tells him to. He walks behind the poltergeist and tries not to think of the last time another voice in his head told him what to do.
Egypt doesn't really have back alleys the way that Domino City did. It's not divided into neat little squares with intersecting roads and street signs. Egypt has chaos in it, and Malik follows Bakura because he wants to know where the spirit will take him. When he and Bakura used to talk, and they never did it very much, they certainly never spoke of their mutual home. If it weren't for the gold ring that chokes Ryou Bakura's body, Malik probably wouldn't even know they once shared the same desert. Even all the way in Domino, Malik still found sand in his hair. He wonders if Bakura ever finds any caught around the corners of his Ring.
(Is Bakura's real home Egypt, or is it in the metal around his neck? Malik feels it would be rude to ask.)
They find a corner behind a shop that's hidden from the sun by tall stretches of building. Bakura picks at the scarf over his face to show his mouth and nose and rebellious strands of hair. Ryou's mouth. Ryou's nose. Ryou's not-so rebellious hair. Malik has to remind himself of this. Just because Bakura is a thief it does not mean he owns all that he steals.
"Why," Malik asks the dead air around them. "Why."
Ryou's lips crack in that way they do. The hand he had wrapped around Malik's arm finally lets go. "Do you care?" he asks.
Malik thinks about Battle City. He thinks about motorcycles and harbors and the abandoned warehouse that was probably his favorite home out of every one he'd ever had. He remembers Rishid's stony face, the bent frown, the obedience. He remembers the Ghouls and the tournament and the hospital and all the deals he never fulfilled. All the promises he broke. He thinks about how he probably owes Bakura more than Bakura owes him. But here the spirit is, with cold eyes and a twisted grin and Malik looking at him like he needs to explain himself. Bakura's mouth opens, like he wants to, but then closes. He'd always been good at almost doing what Malik asks of him.
"Do you want me to?" Malik says after a few stuttered heartbeats pass between them. Bakura stares him dead in the eyes.
"I don't know," he says. "I just wasn't sure if you did. We worked together for a while. We shared my host's body. I think it's normal for humans to grow fond of those they spend time with. But you never did seem completely human to me."
"From you, I think that's a sort of compliment."
"I suppose it could be."
They do nothing but look at each other for a few moments. Malik and Bakura aren't very chatty people. This whole interaction feels awkward, and the red of Bakura's eyes are shaking. This is how Malik knows it's Bakura. Ryou's eyes get dark and bloodshot when Bakura owns them. He's like a splatter of blood on the snow, if there was any. Malik's never seen real snow, so when he thinks of it all he can see is Ryou's hair.
"I didn't mean to find you," Bakura says. "I didn't come to Egypt looking for you."
"I didn't go to Domino City to look for you, but you still found me."
"It's the Ring," Bakura says. "It points to those who have ties to the Items." Malik knows the Ring points to whatever the owner seeks. Bakura told him once.
"Did the Ring find me here?"
"No. I did. Even on a crowded street filled with our people, you still stand out." Our people, Bakura had said.
"It's the hair," Malik says with a roll of his shoulders.
"I guess so."
Malik wants to know why Bakura is here, but he's afraid of the answer. He doesn't want to be involved in these plans, he thinks. He doesn't need to march beside the spirit anymore. Go to the market, Ishizu said. Because it was a happy place for you in your childhood, she didn't need to say. She must have forgotten the murder that took place afterwards. Malik doesn't blame her, he forgot for a while too. She sent him out to reconnect with his homeland, but instead he finds himself here. In an alleyway. With a thief. Malik and Bakura are built on alleyways.
Malik wants to know why Bakura is here, but he's afraid to demand more from him.
"I'm sorry," Malik says before he realizes the words are coming out of his mouth. "About Battle City. About the Rod." About my darker half, he doesn't say.
"Okay," Bakura says. He doesn't say he forgives him.
"Do you need something from me?" Malik says like he wants to settle a debt.
"I don't know." Bakura says. "I don't think so."
"Okay," Malik says and he breaks their staring match. He pivots his body, like he wants to walk away, but Bakura finds his wrist again. Malik remembers when Bakura sliced his host's arm open. Bakura is lethal, and his skin is cold against Malik's flesh. He remembers when he had to hold Ryou's body against his, and how far away the boy's pulse seemed. He still doesn't know if it was from the wound or from Bakura.
"I'll come back." Bakura says. Malik doesn't argue with him. The other hand crawls up to play at Malik's jawbone. "I'll bring everything we used to want with me." Malik doesn't remember what he used to want other than revenge and Bakura's hot breath against his neck. Ryou's fingers hover over the scars on Malik's cheeks. "The next time you see me, I'll have the Pharaoh's head in my hands."
The Pharaoh doesn't have a head, Malik thinks, it's just Yuugi's. He wants to tell Bakura this, but thinks better of it. Instead he says, "Is that what you wanted to tell me?"
When Bakura laughs, it's less of a laugh and more of a bark. Bakura is a caged animal, Malik thinks, and just because it's a golden cage doesn't mean he likes to live there. "You always did confuse me, Malik," he says. He breathes on Malik's face. They share the same oxygen, just like they used to.
"The feeling is mutual, spirit," he says with a bite.
Bakura frowns. "Don't call me that." Malik half nods, because he realizes that after today he won't be calling Bakura much of anything. Bakura leans in, and presses his host's mouth to the skin of Malik's lips. His hands tighten around Malik's face, like he's trying to crush the skull. Malik closes his eyes and breathes through his nose. When Bakura pulls away, he says, "Don't call me that."
"He'll probably kill you, you know. The Pharaoh."
Bakura takes his hands away from Malik. He pulls them back to himself. "The Afterlife will probably be better than nothing."
Malik looks at the empty space between them. He doesn't think this is nothing.
"I'll win, though," Bakura continues. "I swear I'll come back." And Malik wants to believe him, because Bakura does have a habit of never leaving. He's always around, on the edges of the movement, occasionally striking in just to remind people that he's still there. As a ghost, Malik assumes it's in his nature.
Malik moves his feet forward and puts his hands on Bakura's chest. He feels the Ring beneath the pale material. It's warm. The few times Malik had touched the Ring, it was always warm and trembling under his fingers. Like a little heartbeat. He presses his forehead to Bakura's. Their sweaty hair combines.
"I'll miss you," Malik doesn't say.
This is the goodbye that shouldn't have been a goodbye, he thinks. It's the end, but it shouldn't be the end. It should be the beginning… well, not the beginning, but a beginning. Battle City was the beginning. The beginning was an alleyway and a deal. They always have worked in bargains. If I do this for you, what will you do for me? Malik never really did do the things he was supposed to.
Bakura kisses him again, and Malik thinks this should still be a something, an anything.
"Do you have to," Malik doesn't say. Their partnership ended a long time ago. Malik and Bakura don't associate with each other unless they can get something out of it. With his mouth moving against Ryou's, Malik doesn't know if he's getting anything out of this. Maybe this is what Bakura meant when he called it nothing.
When they pull apart, Malik doesn't stare at him anymore. The sand that was in his mouth has been replaced by someone else's saliva, and he doesn't want to spit it out. Bakura is breathing against his skin, and it's an odd thing to witness. Bakura breathing. Malik wonders if he does it out of habit, or if he needs to fuel his vessel. Or maybe he needs to constantly remind himself to inhale and exhale.
"I should go," Malik breathes, because now he's think about breathing.
"As should I." Bakura says with a twisted lip. It looks odd on him. "I'll be back." And when Bakura walks away, he leaves cold air behind him.
When Malik lies in his two bedroom cement house that night, the skin on the inside of his wrist starts to itch. He scratches it before he falls asleep.