"I know you're afraid but we can't hide in this closet forever."
Bakura assumes creating a child would be hard. As Ryou blabbers on about all the finer details of raising a child, Bakura's mind wanders to how this is going to work. He sits cross-legged on the floor before a summoning circle etched into the carpet with white chalk. The lines are uneven and some places have slight holes, yet Ryou has ensured him that it won't matter. There are runes and glyphs etched inside, which Ryou has explained are protective charms and enchantments to protect the unborn child when he arrives. Honestly, Bakura feels anxious about the whole situation: If creating a child through a magic ritual didn't sound strange enough, it's the fact that this newborn is supposed to survive the trials of living after being created.
"What only kills you makes you stronger," Ryou says, as if that is comforting advice to a parent-to-be. Bakura rolls his eyes and tries to hide his shaking hands in his lap.
"We're gonna be great parents," Malik adds with a flip of his hair. He turns to Bakura and grins. "This is a much better idea than stealing a child."
"Benevolent rescue from unfortunate circumstances," Bakura says.
Ryou hushes them both. He holds a blond hair and a white hair in each of his hands before he crushes them together. There are uttered words, too silent for Bakura to hear, and then the circle begins to glow. If Ryou is chanting louder, Bakura doesn't hear it over the sound of his pounding heart. It's happening. The lights in the room flicker like in a cheesy horror movie, only Bakura knows this isn't horror – it's rom-com and slice-of-life – so he sucks in a breath and watches intensely. A hand creeps into his own and squeezes his fingers tight.
There is one massive flash of light before something is revealed. The something isn't very big and it lies in the middle of the circle among a pile of soft, cotton blankets. He can only assume it's his child, yet the mass of blankets terrifies him too much to approach. It worked … it worked? What if it didn't work? Bakura waits with bated breath, crushing Malik's fingers in his grip; next to him, his partner gives a pained glance to the bundle as well. Both of them don't know how to approach their child, so they wait for some awkward social cue to push them forward.
Ryou takes that role. He scoops up the baby in his arms, the long sleeves of his robe adding an extra layer to the mass of blankets in which the child lays. "Don't you want to see your child?" he asks. The compassionate doctor Ryou is: He holds out the child like a peace offering to Bakura and Malik. Bakura leans back; Malik leans closer and pulls Bakura with him.
The first time Bakura lays eyes on his son, he isn't sure what to think. The baby surely is cute – all sun-kissed skin (like Malik) and dark eyes (like Bakura) and tufts of blond hair (Malik) and that grin (Bakura) – but seeing something so familiar makes Bakura's insides turn. He's not stupid: Babies are hard work. Babies are dependent and needy and helpless, and Bakura's not entirely sure that he and Malik are the dependable, provisional, and helpful parents this child needs. This child's not going to grow up with a typical family with parents that work typical jobs, eat typical foods, and do typical family things. Hell, Bakura has a hard time considering him and Malik a family, as it often seems like their relationship can still be categorised as friends with lots of benefits.
But now they're parents.
"Fuck," is the first word that comes out of Bakura's mouth.
"Bakura!" Ryou chastises, though it's muffled behind a giggle. Malik hears neither of them.
"My son," he whispers. He strokes the baby's cheek and rubs his thumb down his son's jaw. Bakura looks to Malik and catches the slight wetness under his eyes – he's not crying; there's just dust in the room and his eyes are watering and the lighting's all weird in this room.
"He's got your looks," Bakura says.
"That better be a compliment," Malik taunts. He grins at Bakura again, a beaming smile that makes all the uncomfortable butterflies in his stomach start fluttering again. "Our son got the best from both of us."
"Well, aren't you gonna take him?" Ryou urges. Bakura looks away, embarrassed, so Ryou carefully deposits the bundle in Malik's open arms. His partner looks shaky and pale, almost as if he has recently given birth, yet he happily holds the child close and presses his face into the covers. There is a slight squeal from the blankets as the baby shifts, then a whimper and a cry. Malik's entire position stiffens and he pulls back in fear.
"He -"
"He's probably hungry," Ryou explains. He reaches behind him for what Ryou had deemed 'essential baby items': clothes, food, and diapers. He hands Malik a glass baby bottle filled with formula. Bakura watches with rapt interest as Malik attempts to perfect the "feeding posture" he's been trying to imitate for several months. His right arm supports the child's fragile head in the crook of his elbow, while his other arm wraps around to hold the infant's body and keep the bottle in his son's mouth. At first, the child squirms away from the nipple, but then latches on quickly and begins sucking.
"You've had a big day," Malik murmurs to the child. Instinctively, his head bows to gaze down at his son. When he looks up, it's to glance at Bakura. He shrugs. "Well, Bakura? What do you think?"
Bakura crosses his arms. "I think he's spitting up on your shirt."
"What? Oh shit!" Malik pulls the bottle out of the baby's mouth as he begins to cough up the formula. A large, milky stain remains on Malik's t-shirt and cargo pants, and he attempts to wipe it away without jostling the baby. When Bakura only continues to laugh, Malik snarls, "Take your son, why don't you? He's yours too." This proclamation shocks Bakura back into reality.
"He likes you more. He's marking you."
"Well he's yours too. Hold him."
Bakura opens his mouth to retort, but Malik beats him to it by non-too-gently plopping the baby into Bakura's arms. Quickly, Bakura reacts: He braces the child's head with one arm while desperately trying to support the child's body at the same time. He sucks in a breath when the baby gasps and cries, and all Bakura can think to do is begin rocking the baby. So he does. In an awkward, jerky motion he rocks side to side, nearly crushing the tiny baby against his chest.
"Ishtar, you dumb-ass, you could've broken his neck," he snarls.
"He likes you."
Bakura freezes. "No." No, the baby does not like him. He can't be a father, not in this life or any other. The only reason he had wanted to be a father was because in a drunk bet with Kek he'd wagered he could raise a child to kick Atemu's ass, but that's it. It's not like he asked the gods to bless him with a child. It's not even like the gods would consider him a suitable candidate for parenthood. No, this is a fucked-up version of reality Bakura will not live in.
Very carefully, Bakura sets the child in Malik's arms. He meets his partner's gaze with a levelled glare. "All yours. I'll be back." And then he leaves.
Bakura doesn't look back to see Malik and Ryou's concerned glances, or to hear the slight gasps of his son nestled in his father's arms. He doesn't expect Malik to chase after him with the baby, his partner loudly proclaiming, "How's this child gonna grow up without his father? He needs you to be there for him. He needs you." Malik must've heard his words clearly – he would be back. He isn't deserting his family. He just needs some time to think.
Thinking does help. Bakura settles himself in a tree at a local park, one just across the street from Ryou's apartment. The green branches shield him from the few locals that do pass through this area, and all at once Bakura can take a deep breath and relax. He closes his eyes to the world, to all the noise and distractions, and focuses on breathing, thinking, dreaming. It will be OK. He and Malik will survive. They have done some research, as if raising a child required a crash-course on how to be an acceptable, functioning adult. He and Malik probably failed the course, but maybe their child can learn from his parents' mistakes and be the model citizen Malik's siblings wish both of them could would become. Maybe their son can be what they can't be, and all it will take is seeing how far his fathers' mistakes get them.
I can't be a father, thinks Bakura. But he has to be.
Therefore, after hours of sitting in the tree and silently contemplating the disastrous, beautiful mess he's gotten himself and his family into, Bakura walks back across the street, flips off the cars who try to hit him when he jay-walks, and slips inside the apartment lobby. Ryou's apartment is on the sixth floor, so the entire elevator ride up is a jumble of foot-tapping, hand-twitching nervousness. He expects Malik to be pissed at him. He expects Ryou to be disappointed. He expects neither of them to be sitting in the kitchen nursing cups of tea like housewives.
"Already getting chummy?" Bakura growls, not bothering to get off the genkan. He crosses his arms and glares at both of them. Malik holds their son in his arm with the child's head resting along his chest. He's been practising these positions for months now, as if there are positions to holding child as there are positions for sexual intercourse. Bakura expects him to start numbering them – position forty-two, hold child upright and burp them.
"I want to spend as much time with my godson as possible," Ryou explains. He stands up to head to the adjacent kitchen. Over his shoulder, he calls out, "You can stop darkening my doorstep all day and come in like your part of this family. Tea's on."
Bakura rolls his eyes, but he kicks off his shoes and steps up to the floor. "Happy?"
Malik seems to sense his uneasiness – he's probably sensed it since the baby magically appeared in the living room several hours ago – so his responses are even more direct: "Come hold your son – I have to take a piss."
"Glad I can be of service to you," Bakura mutters, and once again the child is placed into his arms. This time Bakura is ready to support the bundle, and he curls his arms over his child. An innate sense to protect this child overcomes Bakura, coupled with the warm and bubbly feeling that this is his son. Bakura will be damned if he starts smiling and cooing at the baby, but he can't help but feel happier with the child in his arms.
Careful to not wake the infant, he shuffles to the table and settles down in an empty wicker chair. Ryou comes by with a cup of tea drowning in sugar, and he smiles at Bakura and the infant as he takes a seat next to them. Without warning, Ryou's hand reaches out to grasp Bakura's arm, then stretches up to caress the infant's cheek. The baby is sleeping, head lolled to one side and drool dripping out of his mouth.
"You and Malik-kun need to decide on a name," he whispers.
"Malik already has one," Bakura hisses back. "And stop touching him – he's sleeping."
A smile breaks out on Ryou's face. "Someone's a protective father."
"Someone doesn't want his child splitting his eardrums apart when he's awoken by his godfather's pesky behaviour."
"You're gonna be a great father."
This stops Bakura. "That has nothing to do with what we were talking about," he says. The thought of being complimented is already embarrassing enough, but about his parenting techniques? So far his fatherly displays haven't been any kinder than what Malik's father might've done. His inborn parenting skills will need a lot of improvement. But wait – Ryou was talking about the future …
"You mean I'm not a great parent now?" Bakura growls.
Ryou jumps to stumble out a reply: "That's not what I meant. I mean, everyone needs practice. No one takes a class about how to be a parent – it's all learning on-the-job and finding out what works best. Your son will be fine no matter what, but you and Malik will learn what works best for the both of you." He ends with a tired smile that seems comforting and reassuring.
The words themselves aren't nearly comforting enough for Bakura though. He stiffens when the baby cries once; instinctively, Bakura bounces his arms up and down to settle the child again.
"See?" Ryou says. Apparently that behaviour constitutes as a skill in parenting, and not a flight-or-flight reaction.
"Well," Malik says, stepping back into the room, "if you haven't killed the child yet, then I'm sure he'll be fine with you."
"There's support," Bakura deadpans. He looks up to catch Malik's eyes – they're still wet and wide, fearful and awed, and Bakura is happy to say that Pan has his father's eyes. "Oi, what'd you name the kid again?"
"Pan," Malik says.
"Pan?" Ryou echoes.
"Pan," Bakura growls.
"Like … the cooking pan? Or Peter Pan?"
Bakura chokes out a laugh, trying not to jostle the child too much. He'd said a similar thing to Malik when he'd voiced the suggestion. Malik does not find it funny: He crosses his arms and glares at Ryou and Bakura. "Neither," he snaps. "It's Ancient Egyptian and full of symbolism. Honestly, you should remember it, Bakura – he's named after you."
Bakura sucks in a breath. "I don't remember."
And thus Malik launches into the same narrative Bakura may have remembered from before. Ryou listens with rapt interest; Bakura shifts his weight back and forth in a pleas that the child will stay asleep. Babies don't seem so bad when they're asleep, yet Bakura knows that little Pan will be a whole different child when he's awake, alert, and hungry. According to parenting books (which he secretly read at the library one day), he and Malik are in for a long journey of sleepless nights, long days, and constant unease as they try to figure out what their child is communicating to them.
"So Pan," Ryou says. He nods. "It's cute. Little Pan's gonna love it at home."
"Shouldn't we actually take him home now?" Bakura adds. "He's gonna start thinking he's part of some polygamous, half-incestuous cult relationship."
"That's only if you keep putting thoughts like those into his head." Ryou laughs. "I'm sure I'll see lots of Little Pan in the coming days."
Bakura rises, once again trying not to jostle his son in any way. He shuffles towards the door, body stiff and arms tense. Over his shoulder, he whispers, "Don't count on it. We're staying home until he walks."
Malik gently pushes Bakura towards the door. "Thanks for everything, Ryou. We'll call when we need you."
"Take care," Ryou says, though his bright smile belies a thought of incompetence. He must know that within the hour they'll be ringing up his house demanding assistance for every sort of problem one could assume could happen to parents.
Once outside, it's Bakura whose energy spikes: He pulls Malik forward with the strength of an army down the narrow hallways and into the elevator. "We're going home right now and plopping ourselves down in front of Wipeout. Got it?"
"We're walking home," Malik states evenly.
"Fuck, why?"
"Because we're not taking Pan on a motorcycle."
"It's not illegal if you get caught," Bakura argues. "I'll just hold him tight and you won't drive like a reckless idiot. It'll be fine."
"We're walking home. Welcome to the normal life, Bakura."
Bakura can't argue – can't even raise his voice without feeling anxious for waking Pan – so he mutters several curse words under his breath and follows along. Yet the moment Pan leans into him with a long, slow breath, Bakura's heart melts and he can no longer be angry. He'll be damned if Malik sees the goofy grin on his face that seems to come whenever Pan activates his cute powers, but while Malik's admiring the sun reflecting on the water, Bakura can take the moment to let loose. Perhaps being a father isn't so bad.
By midnight, Bakura can infer that yes, being a father isn't so bad, but it's not the joy and wonder that comes when you first see your child. He lays on his side, face smushed into blankets and toys and spilled formula before his son who has yet to stop crying. It's not baby colic – that's not supposed to happen for a few more weeks – but something is wrong and neither Bakura nor Malik can figure it out. Pan had been fine an hour ago. He'd been laughing on Malik's knee, staring wide-eyed at his father.
And then he'd just started crying. Bakura had shouted at Malik for forgetting to feed him, but Pan wouldn't take the bottle. They'd checked his diaper, rocked him, burped him, laid him down in the bed, laid him down on the couch, taken him outside – and nothing had worked. Pan had been crying for close to two-hours non-stop, with only slight interminable breaks when he needed to gasp for air or choke. It was painful to hear and watch.
Currently, Pan is lying in his blankets with his tear-stained face smushed into one side. Bakura tries to hold Pan against his bare chest, but it seems to do little to help him. In the other room, Malik is looking up advice from professionals – what do you do when your child has a mental breakdown? Distantly, Bakura wonders if it's no different from how he might comfort Malik on one of his bad days – with space and time and maybe lying, not cuddling, next to each otter. Or maybe Pan is more like him and needs distractions to bring him back to reality.
"He's still crying," he hears Malik whine from the kitchen. "Why is he still crying? What else do babies need?"
Bakura doesn't respond. After a moment, he feels Malik settle down next to him, and bare skin brushes against Bakura's. Malik's body is warm as he wraps himself around Bakura and the child. Pan is between both of them. In the darkness, Bakura can see Malik's wide, scared eyes staring back at him.
"What do we do?" Malik whispers.
It frightens Bakura that he can't answer the question.
After another half-hour, Pan answers the question for them. In his fit, he seems to have exhausted himself so much that he passes out and falls asleep. As his cries still, Bakura holds in a breath and relaxes his arms. His son is asleep. The first night as a parent and his son had to fall asleep in tears. He feels like a wreck, a failure, a mistake for thinking that he could care for another human being. He and Malik can barely care for themselves, and now they're being entrusted with precious life that depends entirely on their fucked-up logic to keep it safe and healthy.
"This is an awful mistake," Bakura whispers to Malik.
A kiss is pressed onto his cheek, and between them their son sighs in content. "We did the best we could."
In the morning, it's another story. They both wake up early to Pan's cries for food and a clean diaper, and thus the battle becomes who will do what in their half-tired state. Neither parent has the energy to fight – Malik agrees to feed Pan if Bakura goes to put on coffee. Pan doesn't stop crying until the nipple is placed into his mouth and he's happily sucking away. Bakura catches Malik tiredly lean himself back on the couch, mouth open. He's still in yesterday's casual clothes; his hair is mussed and his make-up smudged from the hard night.
When the coffee is done, Bakura leaves a cup on the table at Malik's feet. Pan has stopped crying and feeding, and now glances around the room at his fathers. Bakura takes him from Malik's arms and holds him close, in the same way a moving person would hold a box of treasures. Pan is technically their treasure: he's what they've worked and are still working hard to create. Pan represents the pinnacle of their relationship, created from love and magic and weird shit that Ryou read online.
Pan is everything to Bakura and he'll be damned if he misses any of this.
But it doesn't get easier. Pan is happy one moment and screaming the next. Bakura and Malik try every strategy in the books, and when that fails they make up their own. Pan never seems to eat or sleep enough; his parents never get a restful sleep or a meal to themselves. After reading about sudden infant death syndrome, Bakura refuses to let Pan sleep in their bed, so he lies on the floor with his son and partner every night. When the latest articles say don't microwave the water for bottles, Bakura throws the microwave out the window in case it poisons his son.
Everything seems to be a no-no for a baby. Malik altogether loses it at their neighbours when they smoke on the balcony when Malik had tried taking Pan outside. When Pan chokes on his formula, Malik is the first one to rush to the phone, ready to call an ambulance should Pan start turning blue. Malik is also the scheduled one: He's already been in contact with a paediatrician – after some bargaining to skip the wait-lists – and is on-track with immunizations and check-ups.
Bakura has never heard of half these things, so trudging through the parenting lingo terrifies him. He won't show it, or at least the strangers can't tell, but Malik sees him fret at the corner of the room when Pan chokes or cries, or how pissed Bakura had become when they took Pan for his first round of immunizations. When the doctor tells them Pan isn't gaining much weight, Bakura snaps about how Pan won't take a bottle. When the doctor tells them Pan is colicky, Bakura yells at the doctor for poisoning his son with intravenous toxins.
"Sit your ass down," Malik had snapped. "He knows more than you. Deal with it."
But Bakura can't deal with it all. Each night he holds a screaming Pan, pacing around the room and waiting for his son to pass out. It's then he realises how unprepared he is. He and Malik are exhausted, starving messes. Neither of them have showered in days. It's been over twelve hours since Bakura thought of making food, though with Pan's attitude Bakura never wants to leave his side. Ryou has been over several times, but the thought of leaving his sobbing son with Ryou frightens Bakura, so he states that there's nothing to do outside and remains at home.
Pan makes Bakura feel helpless. Pan has no words and his communication seems unpredictable. It's a guessing game to decide what the baby needs next, and caring for an infant is the hardest game both Bakura and Malik have ever played. There are no rules and the stakes are higher than ever.
Finally, at the end of the week – a grand total of two weeks as a parent – Bakura can take it no longer. He shuts himself in his bedroom and sits in the dark. Then he thinks. His mind wanders despite its sleep-deprived state at the thoughts of how Pan will survive with them. He can't seem to do anything right. There's no knowledge in Bakura's mind about taking care of siblings or relatives – as if his past life would give him such memories – and Bakura's never paid attention to how families interact with their young children. He and Malik definitely aren't the candidates for parenthood.
The thoughts form a thick pit in Bakura's throat. What if his son dies? What if someone comes to take their child away because he forgets to feed him or take him to his doctor's appointment? And what about Pan's learning? What is he supposed to do when Pan starts walking and talking? What about school? What about his future? His kid's set up for failure the moment he magically appeared in Ryou's apartment, and it's all Bakura's fault for thinking he could take on this challenge.
And what is this doing to Malik? Malik wasn't on-board with children when Bakura first brought it up - "We're raising a child up in this house!" - yet if anything Malik's the more mature, supportive parent to Pan. Bakura … he's the dad who can't be there or who doesn't know how to be there. Malik probably absorbed some feely parent approaches from his loving siblings, but Bakura? No. He's lost in this realm. Reality was hard enough, but parenthood has its own unique challenges.
These thoughts torment Bakura for hours before he hears the click of the door. He smells the food first. It's been weeks since he's had a proper meal, and he instinctively licks his lips. He doesn't raise his head, yet the light streaming through the slit in the doorway has a shadow of a messy-haired person. "Hey."
Bakura doesn't respond.
"Hey, asshole. I brought you food." A pause. "Bakura?" There are now footsteps on the floor, approaching faster, becoming louder. Bakura sucks in a breath as they feet stop before him. He can smell the food now, but more importantly he can hear his partner's chattering teeth and feel his partner's concern. "You OK?"
"Where's Pan?"
"Asleep." Bakura feels something lean into him and he notices that Pan is with them too. Their beautiful son is fast asleep in Malik's arms, dressed in a warm onesie that Ryou brought to them when he learned they forgot to buy clothes that would fit a newborn. Bakura sucks in another terrified breath. "We did it," Malik says. "I know you're afraid –"
"I'm not afraid," Bakura growls.
"I know you're afraid … but you can't hide in here forever. We can't hide here forever."
"I'm not hiding; I was sleeping."
"Pan loves you," Malik says in that same voice Ryou said to him. It's as if Malik is trying to confirm that for himself – that Pan is capable of loving Bakura. And more than that, it's proof to Bakura that one more person loves him. One more person looks forward to seeing him in the morning in all his dead-tired glory and coffee-zombie grumpiness. One more person thinks Bakura is the best pillow to sleep on or the best entertainer. One more person loves him. To hear it so clearly verbalised shocks Bakura.
"Pan loves everyone," Bakura defends.
"Pan loves his fathers." Malik leans deeper into him, and Bakura can feel the little life between them sleeping softly. Bakura fears moving for waking his child, but Malik's body seems to assure him the child is comfortable between them. "Our son's doing great. He's starting to smile – at god knows what I don't know – and he's opening his eyes and looking around."
That's the least of their worries – Pan's eating and sleeping habits are as unpredictable as his fathers' and that isn't even considering his mood swings. But Pan is alive and healthy. Crying is communication – Pan is talking to them.
For the longest time afterwards, Bakura doesn't know how to reply. Malik rolls them backwards on the bed and deposits Pan into Bakura's arms. Bakura stiffens: Pan's not supposed to be be on the bed. However, Malik weight pulls him down and into him. His partner's chest is pressed into Bakura's back and Malik's arms wrap around him and Pan and squeeze them together. "We're doing it."
Bakura nods.
"And Pan's OK." Another nod. "And everything going to be fucking OK. Got it?"
Bakura twists his head back to push his hair into Malik's face. "You talk too much, Ishtar. Shut up and let me go to sleep."
"Fine."
And Bakura doesn't fall asleep because he's too worried of Pan suffocating in the sheets, but he settles down with his son tucked into his arms. For the first time, Bakura feels at peace. He feels Malik's warm breath on his cheek and his teeth on his ear. Malik's hands are pinching his chest, trailing down the scars they've both come to love. Bakura leans back to take it all in, sighing in relief.
They're both up within twenty minutes when Pan wakes up in tears, demanding to be fed once again. However, Bakura feels his energy returning as he bounces his son in his arms while Malik heats the bottle on the stove. When they both settle down on the couch to feed him, there's a lull of peace in the household. Bakura holds the bottle up to his son's mouth and stares down the glass container to meet the baby's eyes. Pan looks back at him with such determination and awe.
"He's looking at me," Bakura murmurs after a moment.
Malik, pressed against Bakura's side with his head nestled along his partner's collar, mumbles something under his breath. "… Of course he is. He sees his father."
Bakura. King of Thieves. Stealer of Souls. Partner. Father.