#It should have been wine uncles but I was too lazy to edit

[fractiflos]

[thiefcat-niao]

Time to be Alive

Ships/Characters: Casteshipping (Thief King Bakura/Pharaoh Atem) Rating: T (warnings for character death, declining health, a brief self-harm mention, and descriptions of grief-induced depression) It’s angst with a happy ending, I promise. Length: 3600 words

a/n: @ those I’m dragging into this ship, here’a a horrible idea I had to share. <3 Suggested listening ( ♪ ) ( ♪ ) (title taken from the later selection) 

For all the power he wielded as pharaoh, Atem found himself helpless.

The thief Bakura had been living at the palace for close to ten years—he wanted for nothing. He had good food to eat and shelter from the elements that he’d suffered and fought his whole life. He’d lost the terrible leanness and the dark shadows beneath his eyes. His hair and skin had grown soft.

Atem heard Bakura’s breath rasp sometimes, late at night, but didn’t worry over it. Bakura never complained of trouble breathing, and if there was something wrong, surely the royal healers would be able to deal with it.

When Bakura’s health began to fail, he tried at first to hide it. He spent more time in the bed he shared with Atem under the guise of laziness. He stopped attending things like banquets, and he started drinking noticeably more wine. He preferred games of mehen to sparring matches.

Atem was glad of the slower pace. His own back had begun to ache when he spent the entire day on his feet. Thirty wasn’t young—not old, perhaps, but not the spring of youth they’d both once enjoyed. And the Pharaoh and his chosen, after all, could take life easily when they so desired. Such was the privilege they enjoyed.

Bakura’s kisses had begun to taste a bit sour, but Atem didn’t mention it. He thought it might be an embarrassment, and didn’t want to sound too privileged.

Atem was woken, one night, by a horrible retching; violent coughing. He sat up in bed, surprised to find himself alone among the blankets. Scanning the room, he saw, in the watery-gray moonlight, a shape hunkered against the wall. Bakura hadn’t quite made it to the door, it appeared, before the fit had seized him.

Atem rose; went to the once-King of Thieves. Bakura shied away at first, but then pressed his trembling shoulder into Atem’s hands. Blood dripped through Bakura’s fingers as he coughed; his whole body shook. He couldn’t seem to take in enough air.

When the episode had passed, Bakura leaned into Atem; moaned softly and mournfully. Atem held him, without question, and rocked. He murmured soothing things, and he did not ask questions.

Come morning, Atem had taken Bakura to his healers. He was alarmed by the lack of resistance he received. Bakura seemed listless; hardly spoke unless prompted. When Atem demanded he recount his symptoms, he’d relented with a weary, long-suffering smile.

Difficulty breathing; terrible pain in his teeth—two had fallen out within a month; blood coughed up in great clots, most often at night; extraordinary tiredness; poor digestion; lightheadedness; headaches; chest pain with no discernible cause. The list seemed without end.

Wine to manage the pain; any excuse to remain in bed; avoidance of crowds, since noise had become disorienting. Bakura admitted to the measures he had taken, and then confessed to being weary of them. He was far too tired, he said, to keep up the act. He was glad, in a way, he said, that the night before had gone as it had. He was relieved that Atem had discovered his condition.

Atem, of course, hadn’t noticed the signs, and wept bitterly at the fact that he’d failed to. Bakura stroked his hair.

... ... ...

Attempts were made. The healers tried everything within their power, and failed. Foreign physicians were called for. Magicians were summoned.

There was always another fit of coughing; always more blood.

Atem, frantic, appealed to the gods. He argued with Osiris about matters of fairness. He threw himself down at the feet of Isis and begged for mercy. He cut his own flesh and let his blood pour out as an offering for Set.

No gods replied.

“This isn’t on you, Atem.”

Bakura looked just as he always had, handsome, haughty, curled in a nest of pillows on their bed. His head rested on folded arms, body half-hidden beneath bedding.

Atem sat on the floor, his head buried in his hands. “We did this... my father... my uncle... we’re responsible...”

“I would’ve lived as a thieving peasant even if my family hadn’t died,” Bakura pointed out. “I’d probably have exactly the same things happen.”

“You can’t breathe—!” Atem objected, his voice rising a bit, strangled. Just as quickly, it dropped again. “You... it was the ash, you’ve told me... your village was filled with ash, and that poisoned your lungs!”

Bakura was silent; he had no reply. Eventually, he said, “I don’t remember if I had breathing troubles before then. I might’ve been born with ‘em.”

Atem shot him a severe look—one of disbelief. 

Bakura looked down. “Well... my teeth’d still be rotten. And my insides would still be eaten up alive. Thirty isn’t young, for a peasant to die. Bodies just aren’t made to last that long.”

“It may not be young, but it’s certainly no old age!” Atem snapped, springing up. He felt his own body working so well and cursed; bit his lip and shut his eyes. “It’s not right! Thirty years isn’t enough!”

“You’ll live a few more, for sure,” Bakura said. “But my body’s had it. It’s been through a lot, y’know.”

“I’ll buy you as much time as I can...” Atem said, his teeth grit. “I won’t... I won’t simply—!”

“Everything dies, Pharaoh. You will too, one day.”

“Not like this!” Atem snapped. “Not when—gods damn! You’ll fight! I’ll fight with you!”

“You’ve pampered all the fight out of me, Atem. You’ve tamed the King of Thieves.” Bakura rolled over onto his back, a smile on his face. “Come over here and kiss me. Stop taking about death, for now.”

Atem hesitated, but in the end could only obey. He climbed up over Bakura and kissed him, tenderly. He tasted blood.

... ... ...

The parasites could be staved off, and that offered some small relief. They couldn’t be gotten rid of, not entirely, but they could be controlled. There were plants known to ease breathing, although they seemed to make precious little difference. Wine and herbs helped to manage pain. Constant rest took the sting from chronic exhaustion.

Teeth deteriorated, and it grew more difficult to eat. Appetite was never a thing the King of Thieves had lacked, yet now Atem coaxed him to eat each morning and each night. The Pharaoh ordered the tastiest things be prepared in the best possible ways, so that Bakura might be tempted.

Bakura always let himself be convinced, and was grateful for Atem’s efforts.

“Wild creatures often starve, when they grow old,” Bakura said one night, curled against Atem’s chest. Though slightly taller than the Pharaoh, he’d always been fond of tucking his head low and nuzzling into Atem beneath the blankets. It felt safe—a feeling he’d had the luxury of precious few times in his life. “It’s a comparably painless way to go, once you’re past a certain point. The gods are merciful.”

“You’re no wild thing,” Atem replied, and tightened his grip. “I won’t see you die like that.”

“I’d rather not go that way, to be honest.”

“I won’t allow it.”

Bakura sighed, pressing into Atem. He could feel the grittiness in his lungs, and his heart was beating faster than it should. “I’d rather not die...” he admitted softly.

“I won’t allow it,” Atem repeated, though his voice hitched. “I... won’t...”

... ... ...

Passionate encounters calmed; became sweeter and slower, and far more tender. Rarely could Bakura manage something that didn’t allow him to lie down. Atem didn’t mind, glad to lavish his lover with affection. Atem’s body, after all, still obeyed when he told it to stay upright. His body could still support itself. His lungs didn’t rebel against him without warning. He could still breath.

They both relished the feel of one another, overjoyed simply to be alive at the same time.

Whenever Bakura was with the healers, Atem hurried off to see that preparations were made. His own tomb, of course, had been under construction since he was a child. Bakura’s, connected to Atem’s by a short, narrow passage, was a comparably new edition. There had been no urgency about its preparation, before, but now Atem hurried to get it ready. He commissioned artists to carve scenes of paradise on the walls, and ordered a banquet’s worth of food be mummified—beef ribs and roast pork and stocks of vegetables and fruits and grain. He had the best wine and honey brought in in great jars, and he filled the room with dazzling gemstones and treasures.

He oversaw the construction of sarcophagus and canopic jars, making sure each was decorated with gold and precious stones. He wept, thinking of how cold the stone resting place would be in comparison to their bed.

“Do you really think the gods will let me pass, Atem?” Bakura asked, staring up at the ceiling. He had grown weaker, in the past week or so, and Atem was doing his best to ignore the changes. “My heart may tip the scale, even after all this.”

“You’ll make it,” Atem replied, his voice soft and tender. “I’d bet my own soul on it.”

“Pray for me.”

“Of course.”

Bakura gave a coarse chuckle, turning and nuzzling into Atem’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

His breathing was rough, and he smelled of sour sickness. But Atem paid those facts no mind and held him close. He thought of the King of Thieves, the Bakura who had once tried to destroy the world. If he’d succeeded then, these things wouldn’t be happening. If the world had burned, like the village of Kul Elna, he wouldn’t be dying slowly in the arms of his sworn enemy.

“If I hadn’t stopped you, then...” Atem whispered, and Bakura looked at him in surprise.

“Then I sure wouldn’t be making it into A’aru.”

Atem shook his head; kissed the scar that ran along Bakura’s cheek. “The gods would’ve understood. They would’ve taken you in, and done a far better job of healing you than I did.”

“You did the best job, Atem.”

Atem only shook his head; kissed Bakura’s scar again, and then his mouth. Bakura stirred in response, but didn’t move. They cuddled and kissed; memorized one another’s bodies in anticipation of the day they’d be separated.

... ... ...

The morning came when Bakura needed help getting to the healers for treatment. Atem lent his shoulder. There was less than a year’s difference in their ages, but Bakura’s body felt old—there was the loss of muscle, although Atem’s efforts had prevented emaciation; the stiffness in joints that made movement awkward; the lack of ruddiness in skin tone. His eyes were dull.

Atem kissed Bakura sweetly; spoke briefly to the healers; left, as always, to see how the final touches to the tomb were coming. A portrait of the two of them—nose to nose, each equal in their splendor, a Pharaoh and the King of Thieves—had been completed just the night before and hung on one wall. They were running out of space to stockpile treasures and items of luxury, and Atem began to fret about the need for expanding the tomb. But he knew he’d run out of time for such concerns.

The healers sent a servant to fetch Atem from the tombs. Bakura, they explained, had vanished. Wild creatures, the healers said, were prone to hide when death was upon them. They were worried, honestly, that the King of Thieves had fled into the desert alone.

Pharaoh Atem only smiled, serene. He thanked the healers and then he returned to his own royal chambers. It was there that he found the thief Bakura, in no more expert a hiding place then beneath the bedding they shared. Atem lifted the blanket; met Bakura’s miserable gaze.

“I don’t want to die,” said the King of Thieves, in a smaller voice than suited him. His breath had grown labored, and there were spatters of blood on the bed near his face.

Atem crawled beneath the blankets and hid with Bakura, their bodies snuggled close against one another. Atem felt the uneven beating of Bakura’s heart; heard the hoarseness in his soft gasps.

“I’m scared...” Bakura murmured, his face hidden in the Pharaoh’s chest. “I’m so damn scared...”

“Everything’s been prepared...” Atem murmured. “You have paradise waiting for you.”

“You’ve already given me that, here. I don’t want to leave.”

Atem felt his own chest tighten, but fought his emotions down. He promised himself that he could break soon enough; he needed to hold together for just a bit longer. “I love you.”

“What if they aren’t there?”

Atem felt a deep stab of pain. Though Bakura had never spoken of such fears, Atem had suspected them. “They’ll be there, Bakura. I’m sure of it.”

“Don’t try to comfort me!” Bakura’s voice rose as much as it was still capable of, and immediately broke. He sobbed—a choked, forced little noise—into Atem’s chest. “Don’t... don’t... don’t...”

Atem tightened his grip; kissed the top of Bakura’s head. “They’ll be there. And so will I, after while.”

“I can’t be alone again...” Bakura whispered. “I can’t... can’t... can’t...”

“You won’t be...” Atem murmured. “If nothing else, the gods themselves will keep you company until I arrive.”

In time, Bakura calmed. They spoke in whispers about inconsequential things like the change of the seasons. Bakura’s breathing grew shallower. They reminisced about a time when they might’ve killed each other, given the chance, and laughed about how differently things had turned out. 

“Time isn’t the same in A’aru,” Atem said, when Bakura fell silent for a long time. “You won’t even have time to miss me and I’ll be there with you.” 

“I’ll be waiting...” Bakura murmured, though his breath was coming quicker, now. He raised his head, bringing their faces close. Atem kissed him tenderly, and Bakura couldn’t quite manage to kiss back. 

“I love you...” Atem breathed, tightening his grip as if to keep Bakura with him for a moment longer. 

“Love you...” the King of Thieves breathed, and it was the last thing he said. His eyes closed and he snuggled closer; Atem held him. He stopped breathing without a struggle; without convulsions or crying. His whole body relaxed, going limp as the last rasp of breath left him. 

Atem held on tighter still, and at last wept. 

... ... ...

The Pharaoh made his way down the palace steps, a body cradled in his arms. His steps were slow; heavy. His head hung.

Atem oversaw the mummification. The mask of Anubis he wore did little to hide his grief. He clutched at the canopic jar that contained the heart of the King of Thieves, even when the embalmers needed to place it back into Bakura’s chest. He held it tightly to his chest and began to sob—broke, as he’d promised himself he could do once Bakura could no longer see it. Eventually, the jar was pried gently from his grasp, and he was left hugging his own body, curled at the foot of the sarcophagus.

The Pharaoh made no secret of his grief. Every time he went outside, it was in heavy mourner’s makeup, his clothes torn open. Most time, however, he remained locked away. The palace halls would ring with his howling, and servants would shake their heads sadly.

Atem picked at his gums until they bled. He stopped eating; he stopped sleeping. He tore at his hair until it was ragged. Despite the attempts of those closest to him—priests, advisers, magicians—his health deteriorated. He seemed to be a wraith, scarcely glimpsed outside his room; making no sound but his cries of lament.

Weeks after the death of Bakura, Atem summoned a priest to his chamber. He told him, calmly and succinctly, what was to be done once he died—soon, he thought. The priest thought he might already be dead, given how skeletal he’d become, his ashen skin caked with tears and old makeup; his hair half-gone; his eyes dull.

The Pharaoh Atem, however, did not die.

His body was strong; those in the palace appealed to him. He began to pick at food, and then to eat once again. Exhaustion made him sleep. He recovered.

For seven more years, Pharaoh Atem ruled Egypt. It was a prosperous time—he was loved.

Each night, Atem would sit at the entrance to Bakura’s tomb. He would cry—softly, now, so as not to attract attention and unduly worry anyone. He would speak to Bakura about what had been happening in the world of the living.

When the Pharaoh Atem died, the whole of Egypt mourned him. They wailed, as Atem had for the thief Bakura, and buried him with all the honors he was due. Atem met his death peacefully—welcomed it, content that the time had come.

... ... ...

“What have you done in life to make your heart so light?”

Faced with Osiris’ question, Atem stood straighter. He had done many admirable and worthwhile things as pharaoh—he was proud of his accomplishments, and had many answers he could have given.

What he said was: “I loved someone. And I was able to change his life for the better.”

The god nodded, then stepped aside. Atem walked forward without hesitation, passing through the barrier of light. He blinked, raising a hand against the warm, bright sun. He could see the Nile, flowing clean and swollen; fishermen toiled near the edge of the water. Atem turned to look behind him and saw no sign of the gods or their scale or his own tomb, which he’d walked from. He saw instead a village, and beyond that, in the distance, the royal city. The stone pathway was soft and warm beneath his bare feet.

Where... is this...?

Atem began to walk, feeling the strength of youth in his limbs. He was clad in his funerary finest—silk and golden chains—but didn’t feel the jewelry’s weight. His whole body, in fact, felt improbably light.

But this village... Atem stepped aside as a pair of children raced past him in pursuit of a well-worn ball. He looked again toward the palace, just visible on the horizon. If the afterlife mirrors your mortal one, then why am I not there? And why is there no one here that I recognize?

Atem felt a horrible chill run through him, and he stopped walking. Where is he? Shouldn’t it... didn’t he say... he’d be waiting?!

“My heart may tip the scale, even after all this.” 

No... Atem though, and felt himself begin to shake. No, that can’t be... and even if it was, Lord Osiris would have told me, when I answered the question in such a way... unless... Atem’s heart picked up speed. Unless I didn’t change his life, truly, not enough, and so I was sent here instead of the palace because there was no truth to my answer?!

“Watch out!!”

Atem didn’t have time to duck or leap aside; the ball struck him square in the back of the head and he cried out, thoughts scattering and momentarily overcome with the indignity of such an assault. He spun to shout something at the children, but then stalled when he saw the young man running towards him.

The man came up short, too—skidded to a halt, in fact, his gray eyes widening. Then his face split in a dazzling grin that warped the scar on his cheek. He laughed; dashed forward again.

“By the gods, it’s the Pharaoh! Atem!”

Atem opened his arms automatically, despite his confusion, and was nearly carried off his feet. Bakura’s embrace was powerful; he smelled of good food and wine. Though he wore commoner’s clothes, his neck and wrists were adored with jewelry that Atem had given to him and made sure to bury with him.

“You’re finally here...” Bakura breathed, and then drew back just enough to kiss Atem not once but repeatedly. And Atem, finding tears of joy and relief spilling down his face, kissed back. “You’re finally... Atem... Atem, I’ve missed you...! You’re finally here...!”

“Where...?” Atem breathed, between kisses. Bakura shifted his grip so that he could lift the Pharaoh slightly, and for a moment they fell still, Bakura gazing up into Atem’s eyes.

“Welcome to Kul Elna, Pharaoh.”

Atem blinked, then looked around in astonishment. “Kul... Elna...?”

Bakura nodded. “I never thought you’d actually show up here! I check the palace every night, but who’d’ve thought you’d turn up here!”

Atem felt his chest tighten, and he buried his face in Bakura’s neck; breathed in the scent there and cried. Bakura sunk slowly down, guiding them to the ground, and held him tenderly.

“I missed you... so much...” Atem breathed.

“We’re together, now...” was Bakura’s reply, as he tangled his fingers in Atem’s hair. “Forever. You were right. The gods are merciful.”

Again they kissed, a starved meeting of mouths; a sharing of breath itself. When they parted, Bakura was grinning.

“Come meet my mom.”

Atem blinked. “What?”

Bakura sprang up, and Atem, also rising, took a moment to marvel at how well he looked—fit and strong, his peak during life but without the shadows that had clung to him on the best of days. He shone.

“My mom,” Bakura said again, and then kissed Atem lightly. “She’s been waiting, too. Wants to meet you. You’ll stay with us, for a while. You put me up in the palace, so let me play the host for once.”

Atem nodded; breathed, “Sure...”

They held hands, fingers tangled almost to the point where it cut off circulation. Atem gazed around at the village as they walked, delighted to see prosperity and happiness wherever he looked.

“You went so damn overboard with my tomb...” Bakura growled, leaning over to kiss Atem’s temple. “All that stuff doesn’t even fit in our house. Figured you wouldn’t mind if I gave some of it away.”

“Of course not...” Atem replied, though pleased that Bakura still wore his jewelry. It was like a cartouche—an identifier. Bakura still belonged to royalty as much as the peasant life he’d been born into; he could enjoy the finest of things in his eternal afterlife. And if he wanted to share that with his beloved home, Atem didn’t mind in the slightest—was profoundly happy, in fact.

“I’m glad you took your time.” 

Atem glanced over in surprise. Bakura was still smiling, but his eyes were serious. 

“I thought you might show up way too soon. I told you you’d live a few more years. Bet you did some great stuff, too, as pharaoh.” 

Atem nodded slowly. “I... I believe so. I hope.” 

Bakura’s smile softened. “Yeah. I’m sure you did. But I’m glad you’re here now, too.” 

“So am I...” Atem breathed, and leaned over for a kiss. Bakura obliged.