You’re an idiot, he thinks to himself, shivering in the breeze that rolls past his fingers —- a charge, like electricity from some forgotten storm, burns under them. He breathes in the clear wind and looks across the field, at the dark figure that waits just over the threshold of black sand and salt.
Malik is silent, but he knows that he’s furious that Bakura has shown up in a tshirt to do major spellcasting, even if he doesn’t know what it’s for.
You’re an idiot for bringing him, Ryou adds, a rumble of thought under his throat.
He puts the knife down into the semi-frozen earth, the pointed ends of the Ring grazing against the scars. It seems like so long ago. His host watches, the eyes behind their physical ones, with the calm semi-indifference to the act that he can’t and has never been able to feel. Ryou is that way, since the day he remembers being ‘born’, until the day that he met Malik Ishtar and successfully began to fool all of his host’s ‘friends’ with a fake voice and fake kindness.
He followed us, he replies. I didn’t bring him.
For months after that Ryou is angry; he screams silently at him through the veil of their body, especially on the days that Ishtar surprises him and smiles too much, yells at him too much, and he forgets for seconds at least, that he’s dead.
Bakura feels the stir of the cold well up inside them, as the blue light of the Seal behinds to leak from the blade. He shivers, closing his eyes and reaching out to feel them rise through his—their—fingers, the weight of the corresponding lock on the Millennium board in Domino quietly falling into place.
"It’s perfect," he says aloud, not to Malik or to Ryou, staring down at the red spot, bright in the moonlight around marigolds. It’s the smallest dip, one that he can stick his fingertip into, but it’s a nail between the Door and this world nonetheless. The leverage thrums through his guts, anchoring to his soul and pulling him down, just the smallest bit. Six more of these anchor points, and the Game would operate exactly the way he and Ryou had predicted.
I love you, yadonoushi, he says in his own head. Ryou doesn’t accuse him of lying this time, but he doesn’t respond.
He crouches down and puts his hand over the spot, air bubbling up in his throat —- for joy, or for terror, or for relief, he begins to laugh, the sound echoing over the hills and through the wind in the trees.