From Bakura's hair to Marik's favorite kind of yaoi, everything in this story is made of fluff.
Oh, and the Millennium Items would just complicate the story, so Bakura can still have the Ring if you want but I'm leaving out mention of the Rod.
A very good song to listen to while reading this is Kagerou by Duel Jewel. Kagerou is Japanese for ephemerality, the fact that human life is lasting for only a short period of time and leaving no permanent trace. It's where I got most of the inspiration for this story.
"Marik, get off. You're hurting me," said Bakura, pushing at the dead weight of the Egyptian on top of him.
"Fuck you," he replied, holding tighter in an effort to stay. "It's warm."
"But you're heavy," the spirit continued to whine. Marik didn't reply, pressing his mouth to Bakura's to quiet him. Bakura groaned, tilting his head to allow Marik better access.
"Not heavy now, am I?" teased Marik, releasing Bakura's midriff to shove his hands down the spirit's pants.
"Yes, you are," he forced, morning wood throbbing under his lover's skilled touch. "You're extremely heavy."
"Are you saying I'm fat?" Marik continued to tease, knowing he was in full control. Bakura couldn't answer, bucking lazily into Marik's hand.
"Fine then, if I'm so fat maybe I'll go take a walk." The Egyptian got up, pushing Bakura for good measure, and sauntered out of the room. Bakura watched him walk out, lying in their bed for a good ten minutes waiting for him to leave.
When the door finally closed, he sat up and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Getting dressed wasn't a problem, but making it down the stairs was not an easy feat. He almost fell halfway to the first landing, but managed to get to the front door.
"Marik's keys…" he mused, picking up the keys to the motorcycle and tossing them in the air. He caught them easily, locking the door as he left.
Where r u? came a text from Marik, while Bakura was thieving at a café. It set off his phone, alerting the woman to his presence, and disallowing him to steal her purse. He silently cursed the Egyptian, taking out his phone and typing a quick reply.
At coffee shop.
How did you get there?
ur bike.
u took my bike? u didn't ask!
y should I?
B/c it belongs to me! I knew u stole, but I didn't think u would steal from me!
I didn't steal it, I borrowed it. Fuck u anyway.
Don't fucking steal from me, asshole
Bakura was so agitated, he turned off his phone completely and sat down in one of the café chairs.
"Sir, if you're going to sit here, you're going to have to buy…" started a waiter, but he trailed off at the look of hatred on Bakura's face. "Never mind," he said, walking quickly away.
Marik couldn't believe Bakura would steal his bike! Well, he was staying at his house and had no other mode of transportation. But he could have asked!
Maybe he didn't know if Marik had his phone.
Marik sighed, running a hand through his hair. He had stopped walking somewhere downtown, and it was unfamiliar to him. It wasn't late or anything, they had woken up at about noon, but it was starting to get dark and he was nervous.
"Friggin hell," he muttered, texting Bakura for the umpteenth time. "Stupid PMSing bitch." He sighed, turning around and walking back toward the end of the street. He kind of felt like he was walking in circles, but let it go as paranoia.
There was someone walking a little farther ahead of him, but the streetlamps were all on and there were plenty of cars passing so he wasn't worried. He walked ahead of them, his strides longer and quicker.
"Hey," the person said, a very pleasant voice drifting through Marik's ears.
"Hmm?" he asked, turning to face them. He received a painful blow to the head and blacked out instantly.
Bakura got back on the motorcycle, planning to head home and listen to Marik grovel and beg at his feet. The spirit smirked to himself, turning his phone back on and sighing at the number of new messages he had. He closed all of them without reading one, starting the bike and gunning the engine. A few people turned and glared at him and annoyance, but that only widened his grin as he sped off.
"Marik, I'm home!" he called, twirling the keys on his finger. "Marik?"
He knew the Egyptian didn't like to be out late at night, and it was getting darker and darker outside. Bakura stood in the entryway for a moment, still waiting for a response he knew wasn't going to come.
"Bloody tosser," he said, deciding to read through the messages to see if he said where he was. Plenty of hatemail, one or two apologies. The last was a request for him to be picked up, sent an hour prior.
"Fuck." Bakura left again, taking the bike and doubling the speed limit on his way downtown.
Marik woke up in the pitch black of an alleyway, unable to move. He almost panicked, but breathed deeply and attempted to lift his arm. That worked. He checked his head, bringing his hand very close to his face to see if there was blood. He could smell it before he could see it, the difference between his dark skin and the blood enough to be recognizable.
He tried to remember something, anything, but came up blank. He figured he hadn't been raped, from the lack of pain in his spine, but couldn't rule out being sexually assaulted. He raised his other arm, almost smiling now. He could move his arms, and turn his head, but by the feel of his hair on his shoulders it was caked with blood.
Dizzy and in danger of passing out again, he searched his pockets for his phone. Why hadn't Bakura come to pick him up? Maybe he had broken up with him. Accusing the King of Thieves of theft didn't seem like such a bad thing at the time, but what if he took it seriously?
Marik paused. His phone was gone, and so was his wallet. Fuck.
The Egyptian sighed, laying his head back on the brick wall and slipping quietly out of consciousness.
Bakura called Marik's phone ten times, but there was no answer. He was seriously worried about the effeminate boy; he was too cute for his own good and easy pickings for any pedophiles or rapists. Bakura shook his head, willing the thoughts away. Marik was fine, he was probably sitting in some shop with his phone on silent.
Heading down the dangerous streets, Bakura turned on the brights and slowed down. Weaving through traffic until the point where the road was empty, the spirit resisted the urge to call Marik's name. He checked every alley, watching the sidewalk with eyes trained over thousands of years to find exactly what they were searching for.
He stopped abruptly, the tires of the bike screeching in protest. It couldn't be…
Could it?
He hit the kickstand with the side of his foot, leaving the lights on as he ran to the figure.
"Marik? Marik!" he cried, not daring to shake the bloodied teen. "Marik, wake up!" He pressed his head to the Egyptian's chest, relieved to hear a heartbeat. But it was slowing fast, every second loosing will and force.
Bakura picked him up, cradling his blood-soaked head to his chest and running over to the bike. Sitting Marik sideways on his lap, he strapped the his helmet on him as carefully as he could (Bakura hadn't bothered to wear it anyway. Fuck 4Kids).
"It's going to be ok Marik. I love you, just hold on! For me, please!"
Marik felt himself moving farther and farther away from physical being, everything around him quiet and calming. He almost felt like he was floating, never having to worry about anything ever again. Except for…
Oh, Bakura. If I had only gotten to tell you I loved you, he thought, letting go and waiting to die.
A voice broke through his peace. "Marik, wake up!" He ignored it, thinking it was just his dying mind playing tricks on him.
"I love you, just hold on!" It sounded kind of like Bakura. That's odd, he continued to think, senses slowly coming back to him.
First he could smell his blood. But under it was something more… pleasant. Like autumn, dry leaves and pinecones. Smelled kind of like Bakura.
Then he cold feel the wind rushing past, and slight changes in pressure. Like he was on some kind of moving thing.
Maybe I'm going to heaven, he imagined, then dropped that idea. He could taste a lot of blood in his mouth, overpowering every other feeling he was regaining.
"Marik, I love you! Please, please hold on!" That sounded like Bakura again. Weird. The wind stopped, and he heard a lot of people at once.
I'm in hell. I knew it!, he thought, waiting to be thrown into the fiery pit. If anything, it got colder.
"Fuck you! I'm staying with him!" He was definitely dead, there was no way Bakura was here. Satan was torturing him with thoughts of his lover, still on earth.
Bakura paced in front of the window, watching the surgeons stitch up the huge gash on Marik's head. They told him he was going to pull through, with lots of care and attention. Bakura told them, rather forcefully, that he could provide all of that, and they agreed with him.
"He's still going to have to spend time in the hospital." Bakura closed his eyes in frustration, opening them in shock when he felt arms around him. He looked down at an intern that had been passing by and saw his anguish.
"Don't worry," she said, smiling up at him. "He's fine, I promise." Bakura couldn't say anything, tears welling up and spilling over. She continued to smile, rubbing his arm for a moment before walking off.
He looked in the window again, releasing the breath he had been holding when a surgeon gave him a thumbs up. He practically ran to the door, following them down the hall and into Marik's room.
He waited for them to set up all the machines, watching with worried eyes.
"He lost a lot of blood, so he'll need a transfusion. But other than that, he's in good shape. Let him rest for a while, he'll wake up in his own time." Bakura nodded quietly, all of the fight drained out of him at the sight of Marik lying deathly still.
The doctor left them alone, closing the door behind him. Bakura picked up a chair, placing it at Marik's bedside and sitting next to him.
Marik could now tell he wasn't dead. There was much too much commotion before, and he hadn't been able to see anything. He was in a hospital, that much he knew. It was a shame, really. Bakura obviously had no idea where he was, and he had no phone and no ID, so they were going to treat him as a John Doe (or Gary Stu), and he wouldn't ever see Bakura again.
"I'm so sorry. I should have been there, I should have been with you. You could have died, and it was my fault!"
Bakura?
"I love you, you idiot! You knew that place was dangerous, were you trying to get yourself killed? I should kill you myself!"
Definitely Bakura.
Marik gathered every ounce of love he had for the spirit and forced himself to fight through the pain.
"I love you," he managed, opening his eyes the slightest bit. Bakura was staring down at him in shock, tears pouring down his face and his chest heaving from sobs.
"Marik!" he exclaimed, hugging the boy to his chest.
"Probably not the best idea, Fluffy," he said, smiling into Bakura's shoulder.
"I don't care," answered the spirit, littering kisses on the Egyptian's neck. "I was so scared…" He started to cry again, his tears soaking Marik's hospital gown.
"This shit is paper, man. I'm gonna need another one." Bakura laughed, pulling away and wiping his eyes on the back of his hand.
"What were you thinking?" asked Bakura, keeping the anger out of his voice.
"I don't know. I was so frustrated, I just kind of walked forward. I got lost."
"Do you know if you were…?" Bakura left the sentence hanging, waiting anxiously for an answer.
"I don't think so." Bakura breathed a sigh, kissing Marik's forehead gently before laying his head on the Egyptian's stomach.
"How many stitches?" he asked, petting Bakura's hair with the hand that wasn't attached to the heart monitor.
"Eighty seven. I counted while they were doing it." Marik winced, stroking his thumb across Bakura's lips to comfort himself. Bakura caught the thumb with his teeth, licking it before letting it go.
"Don't ever do that again, dumbass. Don't you ever leave me without contact," said Marik, narrowing his eyes.
Bakura turned to face him, his head still resting on the boy. "I won't. I promise."
Toward the end I was listening to Land of Confusion by Disturbed, if that tells you anything.
That was so sad my heart hurt while I was writing. You may be asking, "Why did you write it then?" Well, I thought the kind of people who read my stories (most of which who also read Tendershipping) would appreciate a little blood and angst. So here you go!