Content warnings for fragile mental health, calming and grounding.

Bakura uttered a deep, relaxed sigh as scalding hot water rained down over him. He'd forgotten how wonderful showering felt, especially when everything around him was so damn clean. The scents of lavender and frankincense drifted through the steamy air from his toiletries, scents Ryou had said were good for relaxing and letting go of past fears, but Bakura liked them because they weren't stereotypically "male" smelling. Fuck gender conformity, Bakura did what he wanted, and today he wanted to smell like an Egyptian marketplace.

The day had been a stable one, so he'd spent the majority of the afternoon tidying the apartment and organising his junk. Contrary to popular belief, those good days did happen…sometimes. Not often, but it was those times that Bakura felt motivated to leave the house, fob his work off for the day, spend time with the people that could actually tolerate him for more than five seconds at a time.

But it wasn't Malik's influence…nope, he had absolutely nothing to do with the low, cheery humming now emanating from Bakura as he scrubbed shampoo through his hair. The silly boy just happened to catch Bakura at a point where he was starting to lift himself up a little; the thought of spending the evening with Malik was like an itch he couldn't scratch – annoying and a massive distraction.

And yet…Bakura was finding himself looking forward to seeing him again, despite having had to buy more plates as a result of Malik's little stunt with the window. Rolling his eyes at the memory, Bakura reached round the shower curtain for the glass of vodka sitting on the side of the sink, took a sip, and set it back down so he could rinse his hair.

A few minutes later saw him out of the shower, tapping his fingers on the handle of a razor as he ran his free hand over the rough stubble shadowing his jaw, debating if it was worth attempting to shave. With no mirrors in his apartment, that was usually tricky at best. He settled for carefully feeling his way around his cheeks and jawline with one hand, and tentatively dragging the razor with the other.

Shaving went ahead easily enough, but finding clean clothes afterwards ended up being a completely different story; Bakura didn't so much as own a wardrobe than a floordrobe, and clean or dirty, everything piled onto the worn and threadbare carpet in his bedroom. Tidying up was fine, but Bakura drew the line at folding and putting away laundry. Eventually he pulled out a black shirt and blue jeans that looked as though they might have been recently washed, and threw them on, then tied his damp hair back in a ponytail to avoid the nightmare of having to brush out all the tangles.

Why the fuck am I making so much of an effort? Bakura scowled as he took another sip from his glass. It's not like any of them are going to care what I look like.

Well, no…that was a lie. Ryou would fuss around him if he turned up in his usual dragged-backwards-through-a-hedge look, and Kek would probably throw a brush at his head. And Malik? Bakura was trying not to think too much about Malik at present, and failing dismally - there had been an inordinate amount of lavender eyes haunting his dreams as of late.

His cheeriness starting to fade as quickly as it had come on, Bakura threw the rest of the vodka down his throat and tossed the empty glass onto his bed, before grabbing his jacket from the hook beside the front door, and slipping on comfortable, well-worn Converse trainers. He took one last sweeping look around the apartment, hoped he'd drank enough booze to ward off the possibility of tremors later, and left.

He arrived at Ryou and Kek's house around half an hour later, having walked briskly. Kek sat cross-legged on the driveway, tinkering with an old motorbike. His face bore numerous oil smudges, his hair a rather sweaty mess, but somehow, he'd never looked more at home. In his slightly elevated mood, Bakura could now feel a pang of envy, which, needless to say, quickly dropped him back to his usual grouchy self.

"Hey, freakshow," he said by way of greeting. "Don't you ever stop playing with your toys?"

"Could say the same of you," Kek muttered. He was a mechanic's apprentice by day, but when at home, he could usually be found outside, working with anything relating to old scraps of metal. It served to keep his mind grounded and occupied, which, given his past tendencies, could only be a good thing. "You not working tonight, Bakura?"

"Nah. I've got some leave that needs using, anyway."

"You literally just add up numbers all day, at home, no less. What would you even need with leave?"

"It's called employee rights, asshole."

"Shut up and get inside before I throw engine oil at you."

Bakura snorted, nimbly sidestepping Kek, and made for the front door, finding it unlocked.

Ryou and Malik were in the kitchen, quietly playing chess at the table, but Ryou's eyes lit up the instant he saw Bakura lingering in the doorway. " Kura!" Ryou jumped up from the table with a gleeful smile, rushing over to throw his arms round Bakura's shoulders. Bakura stiffened, but allowed the close contact only because it was Ryou; anyone else who tried that would get a broken nose. He glanced over Ryou's shoulder at Malik, who gazed back with a soft, curious-looking expression.

"How have you been?" Ryou asked as he pulled away.

Oh, you know, the usual. Drunk, depressed, and wishing I was at the bottom of a well somewhere so I'm not a bother to you ever again.

The thought went unvoiced, as Bakura had seen Ryou's visage shatter in heartbreak one too many times for him to cope with, so instead he just gave a non-committal grunt and crossed the room to put the kettle on. "Busy with work. I gather you've been the same with university."

"You're not wrong," Ryou laughed. "I'm up to my ears in assignments."

Bakura noted the mugs next to the chess board. "Do you want another drink?"

"Oh, yes please," Ryou smiled.

"Malik?"

Malik glanced into his mug, nodded, then held it out. "Thanks, Bakura."

Bakura couldn't help the flicker of a smile that curved his lips, but he turned away quickly so nobody saw. He made up sweet, strong, milky tea for Ryou, and black coffee for himself and for Malik, remembering the Egyptian's disdain for dairy.

Ryou and Malik accepted their drinks with grateful murmurs as they focused on their match, moving their pieces with precise skill and intense concentration, and Bakura perched on a chair next to Ryou, eyes darting back and forth, watching the movement of the pieces. The flashes of black and white were oddly soothing, a fond reminder of the times he used to delight in waging war on his own enemies - only the pieces were usually more Pharaoh-shaped back then.

Ryou had been in "check" twice, but managed to get himself out of it by blocking Malik's pieces and taking a few for himself. However, this time, there was no way to escape as Malik moved his bishop.

"Sheikh māt," Malik said in his sultry Arabic purr. "I win, honey."

Ryou giggled and stuck out his hand for Malik to shake. "Great game! You're on a roll today."

"Nah, it was Yugi who won our duel earlier."

"You've been duelling as well?" Bakura asked, interest piqued.

"Yeah, it was great," Malik grinned. "Yugi took control of Ryou's Dark Necrofear and sacrificed her, then completely wiped the floor with Atem and won."

"He what?! That tiny bastard sacrificed my baby? I'll kill him."

"Hey, if I'm not allowed to kill people, then neither are you." Kek's gruff words followed with heavy stomps of his boots as he strolled to the sink to wash soot and oil from his hands.

Bakura rolled his eyes as he sipped his coffee. "Ryou's got you so whipped, I doubt you even know how to stab someone anymore. You've lost your touch, freakshow."

"And I wouldn't have it any other way." Kek dried his hands, then draped himself over Ryou's back, letting his tongue loll out as he grinned madly and nuzzled Ryou. "Would I, snowflake?" He proceeded to kiss up Ryou's neck, making him squeal and squirm, before capturing his lips in a deep, dramatic, teenager-esque smooch.

"Ya lahwy akhun! Get a room!" Malik laughed, throwing a bishop at Kek's head, but it only served to get caught in his stiff, wiry mop of hair. Kek responded to the outburst with a middle finger, then shoved his tongue into Ryou's mouth.

Happiness…

Love…

Security...

Bakura hadn't known such feelings in over three-thousand years, yet as he watched his former Host flit beteen swatting feebly at Kek and melting into his kisses, Bakura knew he should at least be able to acknowledge that Ryou, of all people, deserved the love Kek showered him with. After everything Ryou had been through…losing his mother and sister, his father all but abandoning his one remaining child in his grief, and his manipulation and suffering at Bakura's own hands…

He and Ryou were somehow closer now than Bakura ever thought they could be, and yet, he couldn't be happy for them. He just couldn't.

It wasn't in him.

It wasn't there.

Nothing was there.

Instead, he felt his chest tighten, his hands shake, his breathing start to quicken against his will. He had never been able to control the awful reactions, ever since they had begun, but he knew what they meant - he was crashing, and fast.

No, god fucking dammit no, not now, not now - !

Surely nobody's heart could beat this fast? Bakura clutched at the front of his shirt and shivered with the dizziness, the waves of nausea threatening to shut him down.

Vaguely he registered the scrape of a chair, a warm hand taking his own. Unsure of what was happening, Bakura allowed himself to be led out of the room and upstairs, to the spare bedroom.

Where…? Oh, Malik's…of course. But…

"Bakura, are you okay?" Malik sat Bakura down on the bed and knelt in front of him. "I've never seen you tremble like that before. You don't look well."

All Bakura could do was shake his head in response, his words catching in his throat like dead weight. He grabbed at his hair, sharp, shuddering breaths beginning to crescendo into hyperventilation.

"Okay, habibi, I need you to breathe. Focus on me…look at me, okay?" Malik reached out with steady hands and cupped Bakura's cheeks, lifting his face up so they could look eye to eye. "I know it's hard," Malik whispered. "Believe me, I know. Breathe deeply…let's try and calm you down, alright?"

In his haze of sorrow, there was little else Bakura could do but follow Malik's orders. He closed his eyes and leaned his brow against Malik's, acknowledging the soft whoosh of Malik's breath on his face, using it to guide his own breaths. Malik continued to hold Bakura's cheeks, his palms warm and soft, a comforting touch that Bakura didn't know he had ever needed so badly until he felt it.

It was as if he could float away, lost and cursed to wander alone forever, but Malik…he was Bakura's anchor, grounding him, tying him to the earth securely. There was little point in trying to fight the feelings of shame and anger he harboured towards himself, not now, not when the deep, slow breathing, and Malik's tender stroking of his face, was calming him faster than anything else had ever done in his life.

Slowly…slowly…attachment to the world began to return. The pounding in Bakura's chest no longer felt as though it could crack his ribs at any moment, though his mind remained on the dizzy side. Nevertheless, he was aware of himself, and of Malik, and of what had just transpired. He managed a few rapid blinks, fluttering his lashes as if to clear the irritant that was his fucked-up mental health.

"I'm good now, Malik," he murmured.

"Are you going to tell me what's on your mind?" Malik asked, almost like he could read Bakura's even at that very moment.

Bakura opened his mouth, but the words still struggled to come, so he shook his head and pulled away from Malik, heat rising to his cheeks. "Later," he just about managed to croak out.

"Sure," Malik nodded. "You should take your time. I don't want to push you."

Who the fuck are you and what have you done with the shit-talking, smug little brat called Malik? Bakura's coherent mind slotted itself firmly back into its usual spot and immediately yelled about being rather unnerved that Malik, of all people, was the one who had been Bakura's comfort. Yet, strangely…he didn't mind. In fact, he rather liked the idea of that comfort being a constant presence.

"Um, hey…Malik?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you, um…I mean to say, will you - ah, fuck - "

"Bakura?"

Is this shit supposed to be this fucking hard?! Words, man! Words!

"Will you stay with me?" Bakura blurted out, and Malik blinked several times in response. "Not here, I mean," Bakura continued, blushing violently now and hating himself for it, "but maybe…you could spend a few days at my place? Being on my own is boring."

Malik wrinkled his nose. "You idiot. You chose to move out on your own."

"Yeah, well, have you ever had to listen to Ryou and Kek fucking? They're horrible at keeping quiet."

"Ryou sure kept that bit on the down-low when he offered to let me stay here."

"Yeah, like I said, horrible."

Malik gave Bakura a goofy, endearing grin. "And there you were, just a week ago, saying you didn't want me under your nose. I suppose you've twisted my arm, habibi...I'll stay for a while, but only if you keep the place clean. I am not living in that bombsite you call an apartment otherwise."

"See, Malik, there's this little thing called "employment," and you tend to find it eats into your time considerably." Bakura tried to keep a scowl on his face, but he knew what 'habibi' meant, especially coming from a flirtatious heart-stealer like Malik, and the implication had him fighting not to blush like an embarrassed teenager.

Malik snorted, clearly amused and not at all offended. "Well, you seem back to your usual asshole self, so I'm going back downstairs." His smile widened further, and the happy, excitable expression had butterflies flitting about the pit of Bakura's stomach. "Today will be the day I finally kick someone's ass at a video game!"