A/N: Learning the definition of skinny love and seeing a Forever 21 add on my email this morning = this.
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Disclaimer: Not mine.
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Skinny
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The nonchalant passerby, the tourists, the group of teenagers, and the confused parent:
These were the types of people Malik was used to seeing wandering through the small clothes store. He always greeted them with a smile that lasted a millisecond and then continued his day, lazily skimming through the store's catalog or staring outside at the ocean, his chin resting in his right hand (or his left if he was feeling frisky).
That is, until five o' clock P.M., right as his shift was ending.
The only excitement he found in his summer store clerk job anymore was the tall boy who worked at the Starbucks in the same outlet as Malik's workplace, just beyond the next door down. In fact, the platinum blond Egyptian had become quite the insomniac lately, almost living off his caffeine fix exactly at 5:01 every day. Even on Sundays when he was off, he would board his pride and joy of a waxed-to-perfection motorcycle and make his spotlight appearance in the coffee shop.
Malik eyed the time on his phone carefully and as soon as it turned to 5, he clocked out of work, simultaneously fixing his hair in the stainless steel reflection on the machine. He gave the shift manager a wave goodbye (his awful boss that desperately needed a punch in the mouth), ignoring the excitement and nerves fluttering about in his stomach.
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Mixing drinks was a dreadful job, especially when it had nothing to do with alcohol.
Bakura added two pumps of chocolate, one of caramel, and two shots of espresso into the blender and watched as the ice, milk and cream turned to a neutral brown, like the color of…
Malik's skin.
Shit.
No, more like the color of toasted coconut, he mentally corrected himself. He let his thoughts wander as the blender screamed, eventually concluding that the drink was actually closer to the color of exotic spices.
Exotic.
Egypt.
Gorgeous tanned flesh that looked delectable and always smelled of incense and the clothes store in the next stall.
Fuck.
Bakura poured the oh-so-divinely-colored drink into a plastic cup and ignored as his stomach jumped at the sound of the bell on the door ringing.
It was 5:01.
He handed the freshly mixed drink to the chubby girl who was waiting, five dollars in hand, for her calorie-rich evening fix. Of course, the white-haired kleptomaniac paid little attention to her smile marred by braces and let his attention drift to the boy behind her.
As he fumbled (Fumbled? Bakura! Not in a million years. Not faced with the gates of hell opening to welcome him. Not in the midst of doomsday. How dare such a word be used with his name?) with the girl's change, he felt blood rush down to a specific area of his body and boy was he glad the counter was in front of him. Damn his raging hormones and his avenging lust for this delightful creature called Malik.
This delightful, sculpted boy whose face was nothing less than effeminately pleasant, whose eyes seemed to glow with the essence of a lavender flower garden hidden deep within him, whose aura was mixed with need, nerves similar to Bakura's own, and an intriguing mystery that was dark and untold, buried somewhere in his fields of lavender and spice rolling in the warm summer breeze of his life-giving breath.
Goddamn.
Bakura told his mind and his genitals to cool it, listening carefully to Malik's order, though it was the same every day (skinny hazelnut frap with skim milk no whip extra hazelnut). His deep voice rolled from plump, dark lips and Bakura wondered how in the world this kid, or anyone, could ever get him so worked up.
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Malik bit his lip after his order spilled out, wondering if Bakura noticed when his voice cracked or how high-pitched he sounded when he was nervous.
He carefully examined the sharp features of the boy at the register, listening to his slim fingers tap on the keys, calculating his price. As Malik wondered what else those fingers could do, he was glad the counter was blocking certain parts of his body from the view of the rest of the shops occupants, which was slimming down due to the late hour.
Malik tried to focus on the overweight girl in the corner and how her laptop screen made the lenses of her glasses glow in the dimming light, but he couldn't keep the blood from rushing through him and the butterflies from throwing a dance party in the pit of his muscled gut.
He wanted to stop hiding his feelings and just kiss the boy's soft-looking mouth and god did he hate this. The more he thought of kissing, the more worked up he became. The more he stared at Bakura's ass in his tight jeans that only a twenty-year-old gay male would wear under his Starbucks apron that cinched his small waist like a dream the more he wanted to run his hands along bare, alabaster flesh.
The blender whirred and so did Malik's thoughts.
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The hazelnut Frappuccino plopped in the cup.
Bakura stared at it, his back facing the register, cursing it for already being blended and ready to serve. He wasn't ready to watch Malik turn and go sit alone in the left corner of the room until the same drink was left as an empty cup, which Malik took with him to recycle, bypassing two rubbish bins on his way out.
The white-haired Brit slid Malik his drink, ignoring the ten dollar bill in his cinnamon-sugar hands. He stuck a straw in the drink and wished the boy a nice evening, which he said all of one time a day, every day to the same person.
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Malik gave a half smile (which wanted to be a huge, goofy grin that would probably be the biggest turn off, which is why he only let it slip as a half smile) and tenderly picked up the drink. Bakura never made him pay for it, though he would ring it up in the register, which meant Bakura was the one forking over the cash.
Malik knew he should feel bad, except that it just as sweet as the chilled, overly-sugary drink sweating cold water onto his hands as he walked over to his usual seat in the corner of the shop.
He took the first sip of his coffee, leaving it in his mouth for a moment to fully enjoy the rich taste (or to fully enjoy the exhilarating feeling of pretending he didn't notice Bakura eyeing him from behind the bar). Malik fought with himself not to look over and meet the boy's eyes, because he much preferred playing innocent and just making provocative faces at his tablet, which had nothing open but the home page.
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Bakura watched Malik carefully, knowing the boy felt his mocha eyes on those dark curves. He pretended he couldn't see the home page of the blonde's tablet in the reflection of the mirror, allowing him to believe that Bakura thought he was distracted.
It was a game, a twisted game of who would give in first—the urges growing stronger by the day, the need to push that hard, sculpted back into the bar and kiss and kiss and kiss until their lips were chapped, hands wandering teasingly, the chubby girl in the corner watching and silently blogging about how two queers were totally macking it out in the local Starbucks and she had front row tickets to the fest.
Bakura awakened himself from his fantasy and once again was grateful for his counter/fort.
Anyway.
The whole thing was just a twisted game of who could hold it in longer. A battle of fire and ice, homeliness and a lonely chill at an everlasting impasse, dancing on the neutral floor of the silent evening Starbucks.
And guess what? Bakura never lost a game. Ever.
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Around the sixth sip, Malik found himself giving in, swallowing the chilly drink as he looked up at his crush. Their eyes met and he felt his face heat up, even though he was expecting the contact. Bakura did not look away in shame, nor did he show a hint of remorse—not even a change in expression.
Malik loved the way the kid looked at him. Those eyes that were calm and calculating, but still open enough to look almost innocent, like a white dress with a huge blood stain on the bust, or the deceiving wrinkles on a once-beautiful face.
It was oddly erotic.
Malik crossed his legs under the table, letting his eyes trail to Bakura's baby lips, then back up to those blood-stained eyes. He felt a winning smirk tug at his features and he looked down at the list of uninteresting apps on his tablet, sucking up the last bit of his coffee.
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The sound of a crackling straw scouring for more liquid echoed heartbreakingly (heart—what?) throughout the room. Bakura allowed his eyes to fall to those delicate hands as they locked the prop of a tablet and tucked it into the brown laptop case under the table.
Muscles moved under tanned skin, and before he knew it, the game's climax had reached a conclusion for the day and he was watching the seat of Malik's tight, white skinny jeans exit the store, without a goodbye as usual.
He waited for the sound of a purring motor, looking through the glass double doors, watching for the boy to pass by on his overly-waxed motorbike.
All of two minutes later, the game ended with a parting glance through Windexed glass, and Bakura found himself grinning at the countertop.
He loved games.
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A/N: I haven't written (especially for this pairing or fandom) in so long and I really hope that didn't suck and that it wasn't OOC. Lemme know. Peace guys! :)