It had worked for a while, getting drunk that is.
The euphoria of forgetting, the sensation of losing balance and numbness consuming everything he was. Everything he is.
But now the playful giddiness and dizziness had turned itself into a gut-wrentching roller-coaster ride and the sensation left him laying face down on the lounge with laboured breath.
Damn it.
He grips his hair and groans, just hoping the throbbing pain and the dizzying sensation and the fuzzy vision will go away soon.
Some people become emotional when they're drunk, Bakura he just becomes numb and a little scared. His eyes shut tight but he can't escape his brain and his stomach tossing and turning. He takes a slow, deep breath and tries to relax but there never seems to be enough air.
Why would he even think this was a good idea in the first place? He scolded himself over and over again as the poison took more and more of his brain.
He breathes labouriously once more and clutches his stomach.
What this worth it? Was it worth feeling his stomach reject itself and his mind betraying him? Was it worth him shaking and convulsing and crying out?
'Stop it' he tells his body but it refuses to listen. Even after his stomach is empty and his eyes are soldered shut it doesn't end.
He holds the now spittle and vomit-covered cushion close to his body, hoping it could somehow ease the pain of his stomach and throat now discarding nothing but bile and acid.
He lets go of a shaky groan and tries to sleep this sensation off.
Things are different when he wakes up, that's for sure, the sensations from before are still there but no-where near as strong. There's a heavy blanket over his body and a warm hand on his shoulder. The cushion he held so close to him was now a lap clad in tight dark jeans. His face and the floor has been cleaned up too.
Bakura looks up, as best he can, and sees exactly who he assumed he would.
He tries to sit up, and finds the gentle tanned hands guiding his body. Suddenly the pounding comes back and he groans, his breath becoming hard once more. His eyes clamp shut but he feels something cold in his hands. Without opening his eyes he takes the glass to his lips and greedily gulps the water down. Not a cure for the sickness, he knows, but sure to make the experience a little more pleasant. He lets gravity guide the glass down and his body to fall, allowing the Egyptian boy's body to catch him. The only response though is the same pair of hands guiding him up, one placed on his cheek. He stares into the curious and concerned lilacs.
And Marik can only ask "Why?"
He doesn't seem to be able to answer that question himself, but responds by leaning into the hand with half-closed eyes and stare at his companion. Oh how he'd regret being so vulnerable when he sobered, but for now... for now this was all he wanted and needed. Contact.
It's so easy to feel alone when your family is dead, it's so easy to feel alone when you were so cold.
But all that was years ago, he objected his mind, all that was so long ago. He corrected himself.
It was so easy to feel alone when someone reminded you you were alone in the first place.
He couldn't help but hate and adore Marik at the same time.
A thumb brushes against his cheek and in an instant the dizziness returns. He lays his head onto the back of the lounge and lets out a shuddering sigh.
But this time it's okay because Marik is there and he gives him more water and he holds his hair back and he rubs his back and he won't leave him and he's there to take care of him and he won't leave him and he won't leave him.
'One day,' Bakura reminded himself in all his cynicism, 'one day he'll leave me, one day when he's grey and old and his body gives up and I'll keep on living and I'll regret this so much'.
For now though, the beer goggles are rose-tinted and Marik is going to be there forever.