title: love like dead languages
summary: beautiful, but dead. alt. 'The first time he kisses Ryou, he thinks let me drag you down with me.'
pairing: angstshipping (malik ishtar/ryou bakura)
warnings: implied abusive relationship, implied past relationship, implied smut.
words: ~1500
other: see end of the work for author's notes. thank you so much to Jess, my wonderful friend and beta. also, not a huge spoiler but this is most definitely a break up fic, so, heads up.

The first time he kisses Ryou, he thinks let me drag you down with me. He's stuck in the liminal stages between self-recrimination and self-adulation, of I tread where none did before, Alexander and Caesar and Napoleon all, and I almost destroyed what I had left of what was mine, and Ryou's responding caress is his consent, proof that he's already there, wherever down may be.

The next and last time Malik sees Ryou, years after when everything is done and dusted, he's met with an open palmed slap to the face. He lets it push him back a step, if only to see the brief flicker of satisfaction in the smug curve of Ryou's mouth before it disappears. It stings, hot on his cheek.

"Get away from me," Ryou spits, anger telegraphed through the stiff arc of his spine, the tension in clenched fists. Sunlight draws sharp lines across his face, face half-dipped in the shadow of the doorway, half in rapidly fading light. His hands are trembling. Ryou watches Malik watching him, eyes glancing off the line that would let their gazes meet. Ryou takes a deep, shuddering breath, audible because Malik's watching, listening, despite all the noise surrounding this city apartment block, and when he speaks again, it's over-enunciated, forcedly calm.

"Go away."

It's not the first time Ryou's said this, and it won't be the last, the story written in the spaces between unanswered phone calls, and letters burnt to a crisp, their ashes sent back in generic envelopes with printed addresses and no message. This is what Malik never puts pen to paper, much as he'd like to. You're more like him than you think you are, or maybe you learnt the art of vindictiveness from the best. Either way, you've internalised your own problem of Otherness, only its no longer Other, it's you now.

"Bakura-san," Malik says. Respect distances him. Except it seems he's learned nothing at all, or maybe he's just playing into old habits, habits, as if manipulation was only as bad as biting his nails. Wrong move. Ryou flinches. They both know exactly who Bakura was. To both of them. How must it be like to go through every day of your life being called by a name taken from you? Or was it only those who had been complicit in the events of years lost that elicited that sort of reaction?

Ryou takes a step back. It reminds him of all the ways Ryou is not Bakura, a meteorite aware of it's own disaster, hurtling gleefully towards not apotheosis, but destruction. For all the breaks and gaps in his questionable sanity, there's one thing Malik's never doubted about Bakura, and that is his all consuming anger, his conviction.

Ryou is an altogether different story, although no less tantalising. He's gentler, softer, but not in the way one might think. Consider: the non-colour of his hair, the layers of soft smiles and softer words, the way the sun kisses his pale features and desaturates them, turns him paler. He's a shade, translucent under the harsh glare of day. The best part is the way he's barely holding it together, psychological sticky tape patching the gaping wounds of childhood neglect and an invasive parasite consuming him inside and out.

Make that two, he thinks, and isn't that the purpose of apology? To make amends. Except he's done with rebounding lines of self-recrimination and guilt trapped inside his heart, shredding their way through his arteries and veins only to repeat the same process again.

"Ryou," he says.

Ryou laughs, the sound harsh against the chill of the winter air.

"I liked you. I thought I loved you," he says, aggressive stance not slackening a bit. Malik watches him, searching for the familiar soft lines of self-loathing in the hunch of Ryou's shoulders, in the bow of his head. He finds only stiff shoulders and a harder gaze.

They stay like that for what must be an eternity, but is only a few moments, Ryou's unforgiving gaze and Malik occupying the negative space between action and inaction, tethering on the razor knife blade of choice. Which, he supposes, makes it inaction all the same.

There's something like a sigh, and Ryou closes his eyes and the tension drains out of him.. There's a wistful smile on his face, sadness curled through the slack lines of his face. It makes him feel something like an ache in his chest, although he'll never say.

"I might love you still," Ryou says, quiet. "But I can't let myself live that way, jumping at every move you make."

His face smooths out, expressionless, and Malik blinks, sees white hair and hard eyes, but this is the present, this is years after the fact, when everything is done and dusted.

"Go."

Malik lowers his eyes, thinks fast. Steps forward into Ryou's space, too close for people who are meant to be just acquaintances, a story to tell of somebody I used to know, contact lost through the years. Ryou doesn't move, but he can hear the quick intake of breath, and imagines his pupils dilating as he presses himself against Ryou, fingers against his chest, tangible through the thin cotton of Ryou's shirt. Even after all these years—

"Malik—"

"I want you to wreck me," he whispers into Ryou's ear, cutting off whatever he might say. "In pieces, recklessly, sloppily—" he can feel the heat of Ryou's body, the stirring interest below. This close, it's hard to miss "—anything's fine."

One last time, he doesn't say, because this is the end. He licks a wet line across the curve of Ryou's ear, feels the full body shiver, the slight give.

"Right here, right now…" He smiles. "Ruin me."

Ryou pushes him around, guiding rather than forceful, and kisses him like a man drowning . He's caught breathless that moment, as his senses are filled with ryou, ryou, ryou, seizing up as he forgets, forgets what—

"Breathe," Ryou murmurs, fingers tangling into his hair, pulling Malik's head back, better to receive Ryou's kisses, soft presses of his lips against Malik's skin, the other hand desperately roaming across the planes of Malik's body, alternatively scratching long lines across his skin or feeling the expanse of muscle in his arms, his chest, his body. He's dizzy with feeling, drunk on the chemistry of his body.

They fumble with each other's clothes, and he's out of practise, but it's been seven years since he last saw Ryou, since he last touched him—

Oh, he thinks, that's right. Ryou hasn't — Ryou hasn't forgotten the way he likes to be touched, and he lets out a helpless moan, fumbling to take back the advantage as they stumble through the hallways that were for years his home away from home, away from the dust and sand that lives in the marrow deep part of him that he will never let go of. His foot catches on the leg of a mahogany table that wasn't there before, too focused on working at the belt of Ryou's pants (and isn't it funny, he never wore them before) to curse in pain.

They stumble onto the bed, Malik still kissing Ryou as Ryou snakes an arm around him to the bedside draw to retrieve the lubricant, the condoms, and there it is, the irrational flash of jealousy, of Ryou's been fucking people other than me, of course he has, it's been seven years and Malik manages to finally remove Ryou's pants.

They sit there on the bed, staring at each other, lost in the moment between action and inaction. The transience of such moments is not lost on him. Malik smiles, and gently tugs the lubricant away from Ryou's fingers, unzips his pants. Ryou blinks, and reaches up to tug his hair.

"While you're at it, you may as well make use of that mouth of yours," Ryou says, still gentle. Malik smiles.

"You know, I don't think you thought I would notice, but you never gave up control." There are plenty of words Ryou could continue with, control freak, manipulative bastard, emotionally abusive and you liked it . None of it needs to be said; it's written in the space between unanswered calls and letters burnt to crisp, ashes sent back a plain envelope with no message, no writing.

Ryou laughs, bitter, as he lights up a cigarette, takes a slow drag, in and out, and casually flicks it into the ashtray next to the bed, snuffing the flame. The carelessness of the action reminds him of Bakura. He looks away.

"Malik, go."

I don't have anything more to say to you.

It's his turn to chuckle, a mirthless laugh, played to fit a script. "I never had a chance, did I?" But he'd known that from the start, and threw the dice, confident that his weighed dice would win. But games of the human heart are harder than that, for all his years of manipulation and experience.

It's a rhetorical question, but Ryou affirms it anyway. "No, you never did."

Malik collects himself, underwear, socks, pants, and finally, his shirt. Exits, without a word. Ryou doesn't see him to the door. The scent of lemongrass and cigarettes trail behind him.

Notes/Acknowledgements.

I tread where none did before, Alexander and Caesar and Napoleon all — I mean they were all arrogant lil shits (but okay great army generals) but as far as I know only Caesar achieved a sort of state-sanctified apotheosis whereas Malik's literally like "god's got it out for me? okay, kill god and become god uwu"

"I want you to wreck me. In pieces, recklessly, sloppily... anything's fine. Right here, right now... Ruin me." — The dialogue comes from Mink's route on a translation of boys love & partial horror visual novel DRAMAtical Murder (which has recently gained a fair bit of popularity on Tumblr. Huh.)

The idea that Malik won't give up control during sex can be attributed to the talented Arostine (specifically Dressing Down) and if you like this pairing you should all go read her fic if you haven't already because she's brilliant.