Work Text:
Bakura hates many things, and there are just a few things he likes.
He hates every moment when everything becomes blurry and unclear in his mind.
He hates every morning when he wakes up and questions what he is doing in Malik's bed.
Malik always wakes up the same way. First, he wrinkles his nose, relaxes, opens his eyes... smiles. Every morning he wakes up like this. Every morning he wakes up and smiles, rubs his eyes, and says, his voice still sleepy, "Morning, Bakura. What are you doing here?"
In those moments, he looks so beautiful.
Bakura sometimes forgets how beautiful he is because whenever he watches him sleep, he cries and squirms, screams and trembles, and fuck, he can't get Malik awake, he just can't get him awake.
Malik is caught in these nightmares like he's drowning, and Bakura can't help him. He can only hold him, tightly pressed against him with the ridiculous hope that he will give him comfort and that it will stop soon.
Bakura doesn't sleep much anymore.
After three years, he should be used to it. To how Malik's smile fades when he tells him what happened. Why his life isn't what it used to be.
It is always the same. Bakura tells him about it, and Malik thinks, trying so hard, and it breaks Bakura's heart to see him like that. Because he knows Malik is struggling so hard to remember. Because he knows Malik won't remember.
Most of the time, he pretends to anyway, though. For his own sake, and maybe a little bit for Bakura's too. Bakura tells him about them, and Malik looks at him uncomprehendingly, and then he smiles.
And Bakura hates that smile.
The smile you see in photos of family gatherings - a little too wide, a little too tense, his eyes unaffected, because he can't lie to himself. Because he doesn't really want to smile.
It's a nice mask, an outward facade trained for years, but it doesn't quite fit right.
That's how Malik always smiles at him.
But it's okay. Really. Bakura is used to it... or at least he tries to be. He's used to the questions, the answers, and it all seems like a practiced, grotesque performance that happens again every morning.
But some things he can't get used to. Like the pain in Malik's eyes when he must tell him why things are the way they are.
This is the worst part. Telling Malik what happened to him. Telling him, he'll never remember anything for more than 24 hours. Telling him that there have been no signs of recovery for three years.
Tell him that it is his own fault that he destroyed a part of his soul when he killed his other self.
Because he doesn't remember that.
He doesn't remember how the darkness inside him started to manifest itself and managed to split off from him with a separate body. Doesn't remember how Bakura told him to stay away from him.
Malik always says that he can still remember some things. The cold metal of the trigger of the gun on his fingers. He remembers being scared. He remembers the sound of something hitting the ground.
He doesn't remember pulling the trigger. He doesn't remember the blood staining the walls red. Nor does he remember the sound he heard coming from the body as it collapsed when hit.
Bakura does. He remembers every detail; how Malik dropped the gun. How the eyes of his other self move over to Bakura - mocking, mischievous, arrogant, even though his body was about to give in to gravity, and even though the bullet had just smashed half his face, and he still just knew: It's over.
But mostly, Bakura still remembers how he froze.
He remembers his last words - not those of Malik's other self. The latter was dead before he hit the ground.
No, Malik's last words.
On that fateful night, when he saw the Malik he knew for the last time, he looked at him. Trembling, with a sad smile full of confidence - the same smile was on his lips - yes, that bittersweet smile. So small, so vulnerable.
Malik approached him slowly, carefully, as if one imprudent step would cause him to fall. Covered in blood, he knelt to Bakura - and that's the only thing he doesn't remember, how and when he sank to his knees - and took his hand. Bakura's eyes quickly moved over to the lifeless body lying there on the floor, his head one big wound, his eyes so wide and empty, the arrogance still visible on his features, but Bakura averted his gaze, met Malik's purple, bright eyes again, and he said nothing.
And Malik just smiled at him and whispered, "It's all right. It's gone. I'm free." That was the last time Bakura spoke to him.
The person Bakura knew was gone. And he wondered if he could love this other Malik, the one who remained, as he deserved.
And indeed, he can. He has the same sense of humor. Tells the same crappy jokes and still listens to the same music. He's still the same bitchy asshole he's always been.
And Bakura loves him more than anything.
The only problem is, the Malik he knew back then had loved his other-self.
Sounds odd, doesn't it?
But it wasn't a love that two lovers shared, but love, a deep bond that was hard to put into words. It's not comparable to what Bakura himself experienced with Ryou. He and Ryou shared a body, but their souls were different. Malik and his other self had been one. Like two sides of the same coin. And one half could not exist without the other.
For the first year, Malik screamed and raged and destroyed things. He cried bitterly, trembling and squirming for the second year, begging Bakura to make everything right.
And now? Bakura can only imagine that he's accepted it in some way, because now when he tells him about all this, he just shrugs and nods.
"Did I...?" It's the same thing every day. He can't bring himself to ask, but... well, Malik knows... or at least suspects.
Yes, Bakura tells him then, because he had tried to lie to Malik once before, but when he figured out what had really happened, he was...well...
...the scars are still on his arms.
He didn't take it well. His facade is enough for anyone who doesn't know him well enough or just isn't interested in his current mental state. But when they're alone and he doesn't have to force a smile on anyone anymore... well, it doesn't always happen the same way. Some days he would rage and... get violent. But that's okay. Bakura can calm him down.
He doesn't get angry like other people. It's like... he can't feel anything. He just has to destroy something, and it's either the furniture or his own bones. And he has suffered enough already.
Malik is Bakura's life. Always has been. He loves him. And if he can't wake up with hope for a better future, he should at least wake up with someone he can experience something similar with. Every day anew.
Other days, however... Malik would just do nothing. He would stare at the ceiling, and something would be going through his mind, and whatever it is, Bakura would not be a part of it. In those moments, it's like he can't hear him. Not see him. As if Bakura wasn't there.
And then, suddenly, he would look him right in the eye.
"Do you- Do you love me too?"
Always. On those days, he always asks the same question.
"I'm so sorry, Bakura."
Bakura just nods. What else is he going to do? It's not the "I love you" he wants to hear, but that's all he's going to get. He hopes for it, of course, but he's not stupid. He knows where he is. And he knows Malik will never be able to love him. At least not the way he used to. It's a different kind of love.
He has no doubt that he means something to Malik, and Malik is aware of all that Bakura has done for him. He knows that he gave up his future, his past, his life for him.
And yet it feels wrong when Malik moans against his shoulder as he rides him, and Bakura thrusts his hips upward in the same pace. When he works Malik's precum-glazed shaft in his hand with light touches of his fingers. When Malik reaches his climax with Bakura's name on his lips, his limbs tremble and look so beautiful. When Bakura continues to work his fist faster on his cock to prolong his orgasm just a few moments. Anything to make him feel good.
Why does it feel wrong? Bakura doesn't know the answer because the question is a strange one.
Because he knows exactly that there is nothing, he can do about it. Malik will never be able to recover, he has to relive the loss of a part of his soul every day; and even if he could remember everything again someday - what happens then? His soul is broken.
There isn't a future for either of them under these circumstances. Only the past, graced by fear, scars and memories and so many tears. It is cruel that he has to go through it again every day.
That night, they lie in bed together. It's Malik's birthday. The fourth-year to the day after Malik killed his other self.
Malik's head rests on Bakura's chest, and Bakura thinks he's already fallen asleep. But then he twitches briefly and whispers, "I hate this."
Bakura says nothing back, gently stroking the back of Malik's head.
He knows. He knows how much Malik hates it. Because he hates it, too.
Malik takes his hand in his and looks up at him.
"I hate that you have to live this life with me like this. You deserve so much more."
Bakura doesn't answer him, but sighs. It's not the first time they've had this conversation, and a few seconds pass before he contradicts him.
"No Bakura!"
Bakura has never seen anything sadder in his eyes than at this moment.
"You don't have to do this."
But he wants it. And that's what he says to Malik, kissing his soft lips to stop any rejoinders.
Bakura knows that there is no chance for him to get better. There's no hope. Never.
And that's why he made sure he could leave this world peacefully when he mixed the powder into his drink. No pain, Malik had endured enough of that. He would never hurt him.
He just goes to bed and then never wakes up again. And Bakura has never seen him so happy... There was a smile on Malik's face. He knew he had released him. He knew it.
And before he closes his eyes for the last time, Malik said that he loved him. That he was sorry. Bakura held him close until he stopped breathing. Until that little broken heart stopped beating.
He was happy.
Safe. Warm.
He made sure of that.
Malik could not have been saved. Never. His soul was torn in two.
It wasn't murder, Bakura thinks, as he holds the gun Malik used to kill his other self against his own temple a few hours later. It weighs heavy in his hand, but he doesn't tremble. His decision is made.
...It is mercy.
He pulls the trigger.
Bang.