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Bakura thought the moment it was over – win or lose – and his people were freed that he would be all right. That he’d be able to release a breath and just breathe, but he was bitterly wrong. He lay in the spare bed in Ryou’s apartment, the lights dim with a blanket pulled over his head. He wasn’t sure when he’d last showered, or really changed his clothes, or brushed his hair. He just laid there, staring blankly at the darkened texture of the blanket, his thoughts in a constant spiral as the memories replayed over and over. Everything inside of him was a whirlwind that threatened to shred him apart more than Necrophades ever had.
Ryou would drop by the room every so often with water and some food. He didn’t force Bakura to eat, letting him decide what he wanted. Bakura ate since Ryou had gone through the trouble of making it, but he didn’t really taste anything. Being left alone was a blessing since it meant that Bakura didn’t have to deal with other people and their opinions on his grief, or their unsolicited advice, or their attempts to make it better . There was no better. There was only grief. Deep, deep grief that churned inside of him like a raging tempest, bashing against the walls he tried to hide it behind.
When he first came back – he wasn’t even sure how long it has been since then – he was met with a mixture of reactions. Most were wary, others were hesitant but trying to be happy for him, but a few had been genuinely happy that he was back. And he tried to be happy with them, but his heart felt heavy as if it struggled to beat. He was alive, his people were free… so why wasn’t he happy? Why couldn’t he bring himself to even fake it?
A dark voice filtered in and out of his thoughts, hissing harsh notions. A voice he’d thought had been Necrophades back when he was in the ring – and maybe some of it had been him – but he learned was all him. It’d always been him saying things – cruel and vicious – since the day he’d lost his village. And it was always him who’d taken those words and reflected them back at others to make them feel what he felt. To break them like how he’d felt broken. He used to think he was strong because of what he'd endured, but in reality, it'd left him brittle.
He heard the door open and then shut. The bed dipped and Ryou’s arms wrapped around him through the blanket. There was one thing that made Bakura feel grateful toward Ryou. He didn’t bring up his losses in an attempt to relate to him, to show that he understood. While he knew Ryou understood, he just couldn’t handle someone trying to relate to him. Not right now. It would only feel like he was being silenced. Until he felt Ryou’s arms around him, he didn’t realize that he no longer wanted to be alone. He wanted someone to at least just stay with him, not trying to turn his pain into a problem that needed to be solved. He relaxed against Ryou, letting him hold him, almost needing to be held. He just needed this… Ryou’s arms wrapped firmly around him, letting him just be.
When Yuugi had told him in an attempt to offer comfort, “Your people have crossed over. They’re no longer suffering. They’re at peace now,” Bakura couldn’t help but hear a silent so get over it, stop feeling what you’re feeling, and be happy . While he doubted that Yuugi even thought that, he couldn’t stop hearing the unspoken words. The words echoed and feasted on his brain, making him feel rotten and maggot-infested. Was he happy that they were at peace and no longer suffering? Yes. Yes, he was, but it didn’t stop the pain and loss and grief. He preferred that the massacre never happened, that all the suffering didn’t happen, that they were alive and with him.
Bakura closed his eyes, trying to pull himself from the spiral so that he didn't drown in the grief. But the tears came unbidden. At first, they were only a hot pool in his eyes that leaked through his lashes. Then a crushing weight forced itself up his chest. A wail left his lips. His nose clogged as he struggled to breathe through the sobs. His legs pulled closer to his chest as Ryou rocked him slowly.
Over three thousand years and he couldn't recall when he'd last cried, felt safe enough to actually give into his grief and express it in another way that wasn't rage and destruction. It was only with Ryou, who offered silent companionship, that he could submerse himself and allow grief to flood his system, to allow that temptest to surge and rage freely.
There was no shaming, judging, or attempting to fix his pain. Ryou allowed him to simply grieve. He knew that Ryou won't give him a deadline to stop feeling his pain. He would allow Bakura to grieve as long as he needed.
As he sobbed, he realized that he would always, always feel this grief. Maybe one day it won't be as intense, but it will always be there. It was a part of him.
The blanket moved away from his head and he didn’t even try to fight it. He turned in Ryou’s arms and buried his face against Ryou’s chest. He clung to his former host, needing the connection, the comfort.
He felt Ryou’s fingers in his hair, carefully combing through it while attempting to avoid the knots and tangles. Each snag hurt, but Bakura didn’t mind in a strange way. He hiccuped between each broken sob. “St-Stay?” he asked weakly once he managed to get control over most of his sobs.
Ryou nodded before pressing his forehead to Bakura’s. “Of course. I’ve got you.”
Bakura offered a small, fragile smile that didn’t stay on his face long. He closed his eyes. More tears rolled down his face, but he managed to drift off into a light sleep, feeling exhausted and raw. He was safe, cradled in Ryou’s arms, while he cradled grief in his own. Grief wasn’t his enemy. Grief was simply grief. And he had to finally make the space for it in his life.