A/N: And so begins Bakura's downfall. His trainwreck era.
Don't do drugs, kids.
(Or do. I'm not your mom.)
Everything was absolutely fucking wrong.
Bakura woke up with a throbbing headache. Nausea threatened to send him over the edge. His mouth was dry. He still wore his jeans and shirt from last night. Hot and uncomfortable. He reluctantly got up, nearly falling out of bed, and searched for water.
The last month had gone awry. Catching up with old friends was supposed to be a good distraction, and by god, was he ever fucking distracted.
He took a sip of water. Minutes passed and he could feel the liquid sloshing in his stomach, not mixing. This was not good.
He let everything it go. He let it all go. A pile of laundry overflowed in the corner, some woman's lost underwear amongst it.
He could feel the saliva building and a bitter taste warning him of what's to come. He ran to the toilet to throw up whatever was left in his stomach. Luckily, he no longer had to hold back his hair. It all started with cutting his goddamn hair. Cliché.
He told himself he was sick of it. Now, it was shorter than Ryou's. No undercut, no fade, but still not too long. He soon regretted it as the pieces in the front covered his eyes. They were too short to tuck back or tie up. He'd just have to wait. At least, he still looked fine.
He let himself lie down on the bathroom floor. The cold tiles soothed his face but caused his body to shiver. When was the last time he cleaned the floor? He didn't know.
After the cut, he decided to send a message to the group chat that he'd silenced a while ago. The twat is alive! someone had exclaimed when he resurfaced with a question about weekend plans. Mostly, he spent his time with James, his old housemate of three years. James was the closest thing he had to a best friend back when things were easier for Bakura. Well, they were easy again he swore to himself. Even if the room was spinning.
He felt like death itself. Knowing that he'd been through this before and survived was a small comfort.
James worked in finance. Like most finance workers under 40, James went on weekly binges and loved blow on nights out. Bakura hadn't touched the stuff in years, but that didn't matter anymore. His new ritual easily mimicked James and, well frankly, more people than you'd assume.
He'd start Friday after work: straight to the pub. Drink after drink. Toilet visits. Strangers to bring home, a new one everyone weekend. Hurried and driven by lust. Moaning, panting bodies in darkness. Mediocre in the morning, names already forgotten. By the fourth weekend, he'd decided he just enjoyed the chase.
With a body count entering the twenties, only a handful had actually meant anything to him. Marik included. A few more had meant something bitter to him. Marik still included. It was par for the course. The detachment was a little different though, falling into old habits. Somehow, he convinced himself that this was better than before.
For now, he remained on the floor, aware that he still had something left to throw up. Efficiency in mind, he knew what had to be done. The solution that many had done before him, but no one actively talked about. Old habits. He sat up, deep inhale and stuck his fingers down his throat. Giving into that awful gag reflex, bile came out, but it was the last bit that was still bothering him. He could start to recover now.
He unceremoniously undressed, leaving his clothes strewn across the bathroom floor. He spent most of the shower sitting under the water. At least washing his hair was easier now.
His nausea was slowly fading, temporary until the next round, so he went to his living room. James was loudly snoring on his sofa, dishevelled. He could sleep through anything. His coffee table was covered in McDonald's wrappers, half-eaten nuggets between empty cider cans. Fuck.
All old habits die hard, so he stuck in some airpods and began cleaning.
Mouthing the words to songs, Bakura quickly cleared the table. His kitchen counter had a newly formed glass bottle collection and a bag full of empty cans that needed recycling. He couldn't be bothered.
He found an unopened cider can in his fridge, so he started drinking it. It was 1 pm anyway. Might as well give in to his country's national sport. This was fine. Eating cold overnight chips and half a nugget for lunch was fine, too.
He swore to himself that he'd return home alone this time around. It was becoming boring. He didn't have to keep doing it. The validation that he could have anyone was enough. They were distractions. He was sufficiently distracted on his own. He'd be okay.
Bakura looked up and stared at his reflection. The music filtered through the door as he began to sniffle. Powder mixed with phlegm created an uncomfortable drip in the back of his throat. He had a good 30 minutes, possibly an hour to enjoy this until he needed more. However, he was trying to pace himself this evening. He quickly wiped his nose, just to be sure, and headed back outside.
The pub had been so full that many stood outside to have their drink in some Soho back alley. A vodka soda waited for him, but that rush hit first: alert and ready for any dumb idea that came to mind. The night was fine, like always. Not much thinking going on in his mind. Then he saw him. That blond twat.
London was huge, massive, but he had to be here. He seemed happy in his little group, chatting away with a half pint. Oblivious to all the bullshit he caused. He fucking hated him.
Bakura had been intensely staring for a minute. This was not good. Finally, the Egyptian twat noticed. Was he shocked to see him? Probably. Bakura paid no attention to his expression. He couldn't even tell you what he was wearing. Instead, he downed his drink, placed it on the window sill and stalked towards him. The blond met him halfway.
Marik glared at him. They hadn't spoken since that night. Bakura had blocked his number, but Marik knew where he lived. He could have shown up if he really wanted. Why didn't he show up? This wasn't the coked up night Bakura was hoping for, especially considering it could easily make him angry. Well, angrier than usual. He was fucking fuming.
"I don't like your haircut" was the first thing Marik said to him.
Bakura regarded his face for a few seconds, ignoring those words. Those eyes. That nose. His lips. The hair. Cocking his arm back, he punched him.
Marik stumbled backwards, grabbing his face. The blond barely reacted; he didn't even yell. He let go off the forming bruise on his jawline and ran at Bakura. Marik shoved him against the wall and hit the white haired man's smug face with his own fist.
For some reason, this spurred Bakura on. He may have been ever so slightly smaller than Marik, but he was stronger than he appeared. He smiled, vaguely aware of his newly busted lip, blood flowing down his chin and staining Marik's knuckles. He couldn't feel his face right now. Marik had left himself open, so he kneed him in the stomach. The student doubled over but quickly recovered. He got another hit on Bakura's face, something the paralegal should have been able to dodge.
Instead, he responded by tackling the blond. Both bodies hit the pavement as they wrestled for dominance. He could feel a scrape on the back his hand. He was becoming aware of the rush around him, muffled sounds compared to his own loud breathing. He finally managed to get on top, straddling the squirming man beneath him. He was going to win.
Bakura stared down at the Egyptian who looked positively venomous. He loved it. His own head began to dip lower, unsure of his next move. Everything about this was unplanned. Marik narrowed his eyes in response. His satisfaction was short lived though. The noise returned and one of his mates pulled him off.
The paralegal was breathing heavily. So was Marik. His mind was blank. James was apologising profusely. Marik shoved James away and checked his face on his phone's camera before shooting him a final look. Bakura didn't know what that look meant.
Suddenly, someone was handing him tissues. His face was still numb, but he cleaned up the blood. The adrenaline rush was at an all time high, literally. He felt alive for the first time all month. Yes, this was what he wanted.
When he glanced over again, Marik was gone.
He was in a different bar now. The bouncer nearly refused him entry. A red bruise bloomed across his cheek and his split lip was scabbing. He had to be careful not to smile. His friends had found the unexpected fight amusing. Bakura told them some excuse about Marik being a wanker somehow. It wasn't completely a lie.
Now, he was missing the boy. He'd managed a whole month of poorly planned distractions to avoid thinking about him. Self-destruction was his special talent. It was freeing.
He wondered what the younger man was thinking at this moment. He wondered if that other Marik had taken over, but something told him he'd put up a better fight.
He zoned out of the conversation happening around him, imagining that face. It didn't show fear. It continued to show defiance, even when he was beneath him. Bakura thought about kissing him. Why did he find it attractive?
He groaned, rubbing his face and quickly regretting the pain it brought. He wanted his mind to be quiet again. He ordered another drink.
Another bump and he felt awful. Pathetic. Disgusted with himself for no longer being able to just enjoy it. It was fucking Marik. The dull ache of his face numbed. He was vexed again. This was not good. Fuck, what I'd give just to see him again.
He wasn't sure where he was or the time for that matter. The night was one long blur. The back of his hand had two smeared stamps on them. They'd been making their way across musty basements. The bass vibrated through his body, reaching beyond the toilet doors.
He felt sick. He smirked at his reflection; his lip should have stung. He felt nothing.
He hated these extremes. The highs and lows. The mania and depression. Addicted to any serotonin hit. Why couldn't he do things in moderation? Did he want to continue living like this?
Come on, feel something you dickhead, he urged himself. He frowned. He felt his stomach coil. What I'd give…
He woke up in James's bed. Both fully dressed and on top of the sheets. Thank god.
The comedown felt like shit. He covered his face with a pillow and groaned, wishing he could scream. How his old housemate managed to do this all the time, he didn't know. Maybe he wasn't as desperate to forget.
His phone battery was nearly drained, but it told him it was roughly 3pm. He had to sort himself out for tomorrow. He forced himself to head out. November was chilling, but he still got an iced coffee on the way. It helped.
The journey home was uneventful. He checked his bank app and saw multiple cash point withdrawals throughout the evening. Such an expensive habit. He was stopping this month. He knew better though. It would take him at least four tries until he could stop completely again. Damn, I wish I had some cigarettes right now.
He had no real self-control.
His flat was empty, but tidier than yesterday. He felt some disappointment at not seeing a certain blond waiting for him. He had some foolish hope that he'd come find him after everything that happened. Maybe not after that fight, but you never know with that defiant bastard.
He wasn't sure why he'd even punched him. He still felt nothing though. His brain chemistry was fried. It would take a few days to recover. He knew that.
Sitting on his sofa, he grabbed the long-awaited fag. He scrunched out some tobacco and shoved a bit of hash inside. He couldn't be bothered to do it the proper way. He took a long, slow drag and sighed. Propping one foot on the table, he just sat. His body felt sore. Surely, there were more bruises from yesterday's scuffle than he'd initially noticed. He hadn't checked yet.
Why did I hit him?
The swelling had reduced significantly on his own face, but the signs of a fight were glaringly obvious. Would Marik still find him attractive? Probably, the wanker.
He ran a hand through his tangled hair. He just liked the chase. He'd grow tired of him after getting what he wanted. It's what always happened.
He thought back to a defining moment in his life. Ryou had been dating a girl for a year. He was in sixth form then. It was a toxic relationship, constantly fighting. He'd met the girlfriend a few months prior, occasionally hanging out with them. Ellie.
There was an atmosphere between him and Ellie that he couldn't explain. Deep down, he knew what it was, but he'd denied it. He told himself that it was because they got along well. That they'd made a better match and Ryou hated it.
Twice Ryou had alluded that they'd fought about him. One time, she tried to set him up with her friend. That hadn't worked. Ryou couldn't understand why she was so upset over it. He knew why deep down, but he ignored that, too.
One weekend when Ryou was away, Bakura saw her at a party. He knew she was going to be there. She texted him a few hours after Ryou left. A long night of staring and careful conversations. Too many mutual friends around them. They'd left the party together with a third companion. A barrier, alibi.
Ellie left them for her house.
When Bakura got home, he checked his phone. He knew that text would be waiting: Want me to come over?
He waited, anticipating. No. It was just hanging out. On his bed. She brought more alcohol and they kept drinking. He swore she was inching closer as she talked about Ryou, how they weren't compatible. Bakura said nothing, locking eyes. The tension was thick. She looked hungry. He knew he was sending signals, no matter how innocent he pretended his intentions were. Her eyes flickered to his lips before she crushed hers to his. He backed up into the corner, pulling her on top of him. It was rushed, hot, and most enticingly, wrong.
He'd been the one to push her away. A weak but obligatory protest, "Ryou?"
"I don't care" she answered determined before resuming. It was the answer he'd wanted. He'd done his due diligence. They'd blame it on being drunk.
Fingers pulled down trousers when he had the thought of them getting together. No, that's not possible.
"Why did you set me up with your friend?" He had to ask. He wanted to confirm his suspicions.
"I was jealous. I picked a bad match on purpose." He was speechless.
They'd fucked. It was incredible. He felt immediate regret.
He was never able to tell Ryou. He urged her to dump him. She wouldn't unless they'd be together as a result. He couldn't promise that. They secretly texted for a few weeks, arguing over what to do. He even considering asking her to meet up again. Things were awkward for a month between them. He was scared that Ryou would notice. He never did. They started occasionally hanging out together again. They'd done a good job at burying that night, like it never happened.
The friends he did tell were unexpectedly fine with it. They also confirmed it was a doomed relationship anyway. "I'd have done it, too," one said. It was a perverse display of comfort.
Ryou and Ellie broke up about six months later after a huge fight. It came to no one's surprise. Bakura tricked himself into thinking it was validation. He was just relieved they hadn't broken up because of him. Besides, they were drunk. There was no sense in making Ryou more upset by revealing something long forgotten. Feeling guilty over Ryou was unlike him.
In that moment, he wondered if his life would have been different if he'd just started a relationship with her. The fact that he even had that thought made his betrayal of Ryou all that worse. He wasn't fully convinced he'd go about it differently given a second chance anyway. He hadn't changed.
He shook his head, not wanting to continue his reminiscing, and he made another stupid decision instead. He unblocked and called Marik.
It took a few rings. He was picking at the dry skin on his lip, avoiding the scab. That irritating voice answered with a surprised "Bakura!"
"I'm sorry," he started, "I don't know why I did it, but I'm sorry."
"My face of all places." His mouth twitched in annoyance, but he expected that kind of response from Marik.
Silence filled the void, neither daring to speak. Marik finally asked, "Want me to come over?"
Say no this time. "Yes."