finally getting around to posting our fic on here! this is a story a few years in the making (two or three) and based on a plot bunny by suturmon on tumblr which is more or less.

AU where (thief) Bakura lives alone in a gross apartment with a gross past where a kid was killed and decapitated there. The ghost takes a liking to Bakura and reveals himself as Ryou. Sometimes Ryou takes his head off when he's upset or mad at Bakura and just makes him uncomfortable. Bakura buys vanilla candles to appease him and the like. Ryou is intangible so Bakura often does things for Ryou like changes the channel, turns on music (ect.) Somewhere along the way, Bakura finds a way to make Ryou tangible for a brief time and during that time they kiss a lot and Ryou eats everything.

there've been so many gaps in between writing this fic (hello, college) but we're finally up and running and barreling towards the end! as always, let us know how/if you like it, and if you do, go tell suturmon their AU is badass. also, for reference in our fics, Yami Marik is just Marik, and Marik/Malik Ishtar is Malik.

ash & kit

"The rent's two-fifty a month. Two bedrooms, too, and most of the furniture's still in there."

Bakura chomps on the pen in his mouth, feels the plastic crack under his teeth and smells ink, sharp and acidic. He'd just scrubbed the ink stains from his teeth from the last time. "Two-fifty? For all that?" The finger he skims across his teeth comes away blue. "What's the catch?"

Marik snorts and it echoes across the line. "Some kid was murdered there."

"No, really?" He tosses the pen at the trashcan—it hits the rim, bounces off and rolls under the coffee shop counter, bleeding ink everywhere. Bakura can feel the barista's glare on the back of his neck.

"No," Marik says, rustling something on his end, "really. Some kid got his head chopped off by some crazy axe murderer or some shit like that." After a pronounced pause, he adds, "And there's no heat. And the appliances are all ancient." The asshole is smirking on the other end, Bakura knows it. "And there might be rats."

Bakura balls up his coffee cup and makes it into the trashcan this time, shouldering his way out of the shop. "You could have just led with that, Marik, instead of making up stupid ghost stories." There's a long silence where he pretends like he has things like standards and Marik waits patiently for him to cave. "I need a place. I'll take it."

"I'm not making—" Marik sighs, "look, whatever, the sooner you're out of my room, the better. I'll let the landlord know." Bakura steps down into the subway and smushes his phone to his ear to hear Marik ask, "Want Rishid to help you move your stuff?"

He jumps the turnstile. "Nah, it's okay. You and Malik are enough."

"Who said I'm volunteering?"

"Whatever," Bakura skids into the train by the skin of his nose, jostling other passengers and ignoring their disgruntled muttering with practice ease, "you'll help. You love me."

There's a brief, awkward pause before Marik huffs into the phone. "Fine, fine. See you tomorrow."

/

Bakura drops his duffel bag and a cloud of dust rushes up to meet him. Marik and Malik out from behind him, one chin on either of his shoulders. "Damnit, Marik, this place is a sty."

Malik hisses something to his twin and something twists in Bakura's gut—he remembers only bits and pieces of the language his mother taught him, not enough to understand but just enough for it to sting. He kicks the doorjamb instead of turning and wringing Malik's neck out of misplaced rage. Part of the wood cracks under his boot. Malik speaks again, this time in Japanese. "Are you seriously going to live here?"

Bakura wanders into the living room, peers into the rest of the apartment. The dust is making his eyes water, and he scratches the back of his neck. "Yeah, I guess? I mean, I can't keep mooching off you guys."

Malik elbows his brother in the ribs, hard, before he can open his mouth. "Marik's an ass. You could stay with us longer. Ishizu loves you." Malik has to dig his fingers into the sill before the grimy balcony opens with a groan—the floating dust motes glow in the sudden light. He turns on his heel to jab a finger at Bakura. "And I mean that in a purely platonic, little-brother sort of way. If you sleep with my sister, I'll punch out your teeth."

"I'll eviscerate you," Marik pipes up from the doorway.

Bakura and Malik exchange looks. "I'm concerned for him, Malik."

Marik goes to lean against the wall and thinks better of it. "Please. I'm not the one who's renting an apartment someone was brutally murdered in."

"Shut up with that shit, okay?" Bakura scowls at Marik as he picks his way into the hallway, opening doors to find a closet, a bathroom, a bedroom. The furthest door on the right sticks for a moment and Bakura puts his weight into it. "It wasn't funny the first time." The door to the bedroom creaks as it opens. "Oh fuck—"

Malik peers over his shoulder, Marik trailing behind them. "What?"

Marik sees what his friend is staring at before his twin does. Bakura would punch the shit-eating grin off his face if he didn't want to vomit instead. "Who's making shit up now?"

The wooden floor of the bedroom is gouged, there's no other word for it. Chunks of the floor are gouged out, the planks stained a grungy copper. There were only a bed and a bookshelf, and they're both smashed to pieces and strewn across the room. Malik runs a hand over one of the dents in the walls, then wipes the plaster dust off on his jeans. The window frame must've been glued back together with gum and prayers, and—"Are those claw marks?" Bakura rubs a hand over his face. "From someone's nails?" He can taste bile in the back of his throat and his brain helpfully supplies a running reel of what must have happened here.

Ever deadpan, Marik shrugs. "I told you so."

"Marik!" His brother snaps at him. He eyes Bakura, who's standing over the mutilated floor, shell-shocked. "I think you broke him." Malik rests his hand on Bakura's shoulder. "Hey, come on. We can find a different place."

Bakura comes back to himself and flinches under Malik's hand. Shaking his head, he runs a hand through his hair. "No. No, it's fine. It's cheap. I just—let me borrow your phone?" He flaps a hand awkwardly around the room and resists the urge to run the ever-loving hell away. "I want to take photos of the damage, in case the landlord thinks I added on to the damage or something."

The twins have a hushed conversation near the bedroom door while Bakura snaps photos of the window frame and the floor and the walls, trying his damndest to ignore them. He's zooming in on a stain that looks suspiciously like blood when he backspaces into the previous picture and can't figure his way back to the main screen like some sort of octogenarian. "Malik, come here, I can't figure out your phone. You smug assholes, it's like a goddamn satellite—whoa." Bakura waves them over. "What the hell—?"

Malik slings an arm around Bakura's waist as he shows them the screen. "Right there, by the window. Is that glare?" Twin dots of light float on the wall next to the window, blurring the background around them. Bakura flips through the rest of the photos. "Look, it's in all of them."

"No, I don't think it's glare." Malik's skinny finger pokes at the screen. "It's not close enough to the window to be." He leans closer, his earrings brushing Bakura's shoulder. "They look like eyes—that's creepy!"

Bakura nearly drops the phone and Malik yelps, high and sharp, as Marik gooses them both. He ducks away from flailing fists and bolts from the room, yowling, "It's the ghost! He's coming to kill you!"

Rubbing his sides, Bakura glares after him and hands Malik back his phone. "He's got some serious issues, you know that, right?"

Malik shrugs. "He grew up in a box, practically."

"You grew up in a box, too. You turned out alright."

Malik snorts. "Thanks." Expression softening, he glances around. "You sure you'll be alright in here? You can still stay with us."

They walk to the door and Bakura waves him off. "Nah, don't worry about it. It's close to work, and it's really cheap. I'll be fine. See you in classes tomorrow?"

Malik rolls his eyes and gives the apartment another glance. "Okay. Just, don't sleep in that fucked-up room, please? Promise?"

"Yeah, yeah, Mom. Sure thing." Bakura closes the door on Malik's snide reply, but he's grinning. "Maybe this won't be so bad."

He's crawling into his sleeping bag—the whole house is under an inch of dust, he'll deal with it tomorrow—when a floorboard creaks in the other bedroom. Bakura stares at the ceiling and tries not to have a heart attack. "Rats, right? Marik said there are rats."

He doesn't sleep the rest of the night.