Marik stood by the window, staring down at the city below. The rain spattered the glass as he nibbled at a hangnail, brooding. It was too crowded, the buildings too close, the streets too narrow.
As the door creaked open behind him, his hand flew to his knife, which in turn flew across the room.
Bakura dodged it easily. "Jumpy?"
Marik shrugged. "I don't like this place," he spat.
"We've only been here for three hours—"
"So?"
"We can leave once the rain stops."
"Winter's coming. We won't make it."
"We'll figure it out." He set his bags down. "Relax."
A noncommittal grunt.
Bakura sighed. "Should I leave?"
Head-shake.
"Want to talk?"
Another.
"What about a present?" Bakura tossed a bottle of lotion onto the bed.
A few seconds passed before Marik wandered over. They stripped off their shirts without fanfare, Marik's hands grabbing the bottle and pouring it out. Nudging Bakura's hair out of the way he began to knead the tanned, weathered skin. There was no bar-brawl scar on his shoulders months ago, no still-healing gashes from dodging cars.
"I didn't buy it for me," Bakura murmured, leaning into Marik's hands. "I'm not the one who needs to relax."
Marik said nothing, rubbing in silence. Bakura turned and peeled away, slathering the cool liquid across his chest. His hands skated across the battle-scarred skin, the aloe gently soothing him.
"Do you ever regret it?" Marik asked quietly. "Coming back to find me after the shadow game?"
Bakura shot him a glance. "You already know the answer to that," he replied. "Do you want me to get your back?"
Hesitation, a shaky nod. "Don't look," he muttered.
Bakura nodded, eyes fixed on his earring. It twitched as Marik flinched, then swung as slowly, he relaxed into Bakura's grasp.