A Step in the Right Direction
They hadn't been rooming together for very long when they realized that living in Marik's childhood home just wasn't going to cut it. The home was less of a home and more of a dungeon; isolated, underground, located somewhere out in the Egyptian desert that was impossible to find. Marik, accustomed to abuse and neglect, didn't have many issues with it, but Bakura had spent so much time in urban Japan, with his host Ryou's kind father and running water and all sorts of other amenities. It didn't take him more than a few days to put his foot down and demand that the pair move. At first, Marik protested.
"Move?! Why should we move? You just need to get to used to this is all," he had insisted, "It gets really nice once you're used to it."
"Marik," Bakura had growled, "You can't see the sun from our living room."
"So? You'd burn anyway."
"Marik…" he continued, his teeth clenched, "We don't have running water or electricity either."
The blonde gave in fairly soon. He remembered his childhood when his older sister had clandestinely taken him outside to see the world, against his father's vehement demands that none of his children ever leave the tomb of the Nameless Pharaoh. He remembered those first rays of the sun streaming down onto his face, his skin being soothed by their warmth. Then he remembered, achingly he remembered, his twelfth birthday, when he was flayed and scarred with an old hocus-pocus secret his family had, for some godforsaken reason, believed in. His father beat him regularly. His anger festered within him and all he had desired his entire childhood was love. Somewhere deep in his heart, he had actually never wanted to go back to the tomb, but he couldn't admit it.
So, it was decided. The pair decided they would relocate to America, a place neither of them had ever been. They used the powers of the internet to find an affordable, two-story home for rent on the outskirts of a smallish city.
"It's called a suburb, Marik," Bakura had informed him, but Marik denied this basic vocabulary.
"Bakura I have told you a hundred times. A 'suburb' is a type of sandwich that resembles a hoagie," Marik insisted. He thought "suburb" was the elongated form of "sub," American slang for a long sandwhich. Bakura, not being a bumbling idiot, knew this was not true, but also knew there was no convincing Marik in these endeavors.
Being an esteemed thief, Bakura had paid their security deposit and first month's rent out of pocket. He also had purchased their plane tickets and arranged for their most important furniture and other belongings to be transported to the house. The flight had been absolute torture for both of them, but for very different reasons. Takeoff made Marik cringe and tremble like a frightened puppy. He dug his fingernails into Bakura's arm and almost cried; of course he wouldn't have admitted to that part. Bakura felt he was being tortured because of - well, Marik.
Getting through security at the American airport was yet another monstrosity, simply because of the way American airports are. The pair were over the age of 12, so they had to take their shoes off in order to pass through the metal detector and Xray machines.
"So, 13 year olds are dangerous, but 12 year olds are not?" Marik had scoffed, "If they knew the things we were doing at age 12…"
The airport offered a cheap taxi service, which they took to their new house. The driver was an morbidly obese man who had tasteless tattoos covering his entire body - even his neck and face - and reeked of McDonalds grease fryers. Some of the most shocking pieces of "artwork" that adorned him were: two stick figures having anal sex (one was labeled "me" and the other was labeled "your mom") on his upper arm, the classic "NO REGERTS" on the inside of that same arm, a Taco Bell logo, and a very poorly drawn monkey. Marik was just itching to say something to the driver about them, something stupid no doubt, but Bakura was able to distract him long enough to avoid that interaction. Bakura was a bit concerned about whether or not they would make it to their apartment or a body farm.
They did make it to their new home, though, and marveled at the sight of it. It was a two story blue house with a black roof and cute little windows trimmed in white. There was a garage connected to the home, painted by the same color palette, that they would most likely use for storage, as they didn't have a car. In front of the house and garage was a neatly grown lawn of luscious yellow-green grass, and beyond that was a quaint street made of gravel that looped around the neighborhood in which they were now the newest residents.
It was purely coincidental, but Bakura and Marik managed to arrive at their new home just 5 minutes or so before a box truck arrived with all of their possessions. The truck pulled into the drive and a nondescript man stepped out.
"Ryou Bakura?" he asked, extending a clipboard to Bakura. Marik snickered at hearing the first name of Bakura's host. Bakura discretely elbowed him in the ribs.
"Yes, that is I," Bakura sighed, taking the pen and signing the contract on the clipboard. It was just something saying that the man driving the truck wasn't responsible for any damage to their belongings and blah blah blah.
"Okay," the man said, taking back his clipboard, "I am not contractually allowed to help you unload your things. So I'll just be waiting in the truck and when it's empty I'll leave."
Marik burst out, "WHAT?! You seriously expect me to perform manual labor?! Do you KNOW who I AM?"
The man shrugged. "A fruit with a creepy accent."
"Oh that is IT!" Marik lunged at the man, but Bakura grabbed him around the waist, preventing him from clawing the eyes out of the truck driver. The man shrugged his shoulders and walked calmly back to his truck. He had seen significantly more threatening things than a skinny youth who wore eyeliner and tight pants.
Bakura growled, "Marik, we're just going to have to do it. Now open the truck and get started. I'm going to get the key, so we can go inside."
A disgruntled Marik Ishtar went to the truck, opened the latch, and began unloading the many boxes that were inside. Bakura went to the garage. In an email the landlord had told him to look under the welcome mat just outside of the house door. There, in an envelope, he found the key. He opened the door to the house and entered what appeared to be the kitchen. It was very plain on the inside, just a green tile floor and cream walls. It had only the most basic appliances: microwave, fridge, stove, etc. He walked through the kitchen and into what appeared to be the living room. The carpet was a simple cream color, the walls a similar color, and a wide bay window was situated overlooking the front lawn.
Next to the living room was a bathroom, and next to that, a set of stairs. He ascended the stairs and found two bedrooms and a second bathroom. Each bedroom was decently sized, but neither had any furniture. One had a much larger closet than the other; Marik would insist on having that one. Bakura went back downstairs and found another room. This was the room one would enter into if he used the front door of the house; it was a "mud room," as Americans call it (if Bakura was going to be living in America, he figured he should probably learn some American slang terms). It had a washer and dryer and a coat closet.
Looks better than it did on the internet.
Bakura returned outside to see what Marik was getting into. He assumed he had probably gotten his shirt caught on some metal or something else ridiculous and would have made exactly zero progress. Needless to say, he was pleasantly surprised when Marik had actually managed to get all of the boxes and furniture out of the truck and onto the driveway, and the truck itself was gone.
"Marik! I'm...I'm speechless."
Marik squinted his eyes and cocked his head to the left. "You're what now?"
"I'm not going to lie, I assumed you would have done something stupid and...Well, I'm just amazed you got all of this done by your lonesome," Bakura stammered, improvising because he was so unaccustomed to giving Marik praise, "Bunch up and let's get started, shall we?"
Marik smirked and picked up a box. He headed towards the garage and disappeared inside of the house. After about an hour the pair had a decent start on things. All of the boxes were inside. the couch - well, Marik insisted that a futon counted as a couch and therefore it could be placed in the living room full time; Bakura contended that as soon as possible they would find a proper sofa and dispose of the collegiate futon - was placed across from the bay window. They had hauled in a folding table that they could use as a kitchen table for now. That piece of furniture they could actually agree on. Now, they were in the process of opening boxes and sorting out where it should all go.
Marik had three boxes full of pots, pans, plates, silverware, etc. setting on the kitchen table and was sorting them into the drawers and cabinets. Bakura was in the living room sorting through their suitcases. Mind you, they hadn't been living together for very long, and he was astonished at some of the things he was finding that belonged to Marik.
"GAH! Marik what is...THIS?" he exclaimed holding up a thin piece of purple fabric.
Marik turned - calmly at first - to see what Bakura was holding. When he realized what it was, he darted from the kitchen to the living room and snatched it out of his hand.
"That's uh," he started, "It's a personal item!"
Oh, so it was a thong...Bakura thought to himself. Both of them blushed.
"Bakura, why don't you do the dishes and I'll sort through our clothing?" Marik suggested, embarrassed of the other items Bakura could find.
Bakura rose from the floor. "Sounds good. You've got - uh - a lot more than I do anyway."
After a few more hours of this, they realized it was nearly 11pm and they hadn't eaten since the plane ride to America. Bakura volunteered to make dinner, but Marik was persistent that he should do it, as he had less experience in it and really needed to learn. That made sense, so Bakura resigned to let Marik do that while he carried blankets, clothes, pillows, etc. up to their bedrooms.
He started with his own things. He took his dresser up and placed it against the wall in the room with the smaller closet. He then took up his own clothing and carefully sorted it into the drawers. Organizing the closet came next. He hadn't realized it before, but his wardrobe consisted almost entirely of striped blue shirts and jackets. He had one denim jacket for some reason, though he hardly ever wore it, and a couple of sweaters he saved for the coldest months. Next he brought up his hair and - shhh. Don't let Marik find out about these - makeup products. He had a large selection of brushes and combs; how else was he supposed to keep his mane so soft and healthy? He'd been using the same hair dryer for years now and had amassed a store's amount of products. He carefully sorted each and every item - hair gel, dry shampoo, deep conditioners, argan oils, hairspray, mousse - into its appropriate drawer. Then he did the same to all of his makeup - eyeliners, foundation, mascara, highlighter, even lip gloss.
Meanwhile, Marik went to town preparing dinner in the kitchen. He spent approximately eight and a half minutes trying to decide between making spaghetti and cavatappi noodles. Then he actually opened the small box of food they had brought with them and found out that they didn't' have spaghetti noodles, meaning he would have to make cavatappi noodles and he had wasted those eight and a half minutes of his life debating between cavatappi and noodles they didn't even have and...well, now you know what it is like to be inside of Marik's head for just a moment.
Frig. I did the thing again...he scolded himself...That thing Bakura tells me not to do where I'm kind of stupid and then I ramble on and do something...Oh no I'm doing it again aren't I?
He procured a large pot and filled it with water. Then he placed it on the front left burner on the stove. While he waited, he set the table. Then he tried to find something that went well with pasta. GARLIC BREAD! He would make garlic bread, which of course required finding bread and garlic and butter, which was luckily also in the box.
But I thought butter needed to be refrigerated?
Marik put a few slices of bread on a sheet, buttered them, and sprinkled them with garlic. Then he placed them in the oven to bake. While they did that, he began pacing around the kitchen, thinking about butter and whether or not it needed to be refrigerated.
Bakura left his room and descended the stairs to the living room. Neither he nor Marik had brought their beds from Egypt; they weren't in very good shape and would have been a hassle. They had, however, brought sleeping bags, which he pulled from a container to take upstairs. He had only gotten halfway up the stairs when he heard a familiar voice and the pitter patter of running feet.
"Bakura! Bakura! Wait"
Bakura rolled his eyes, "Yes, Marik?"
"Doesn't butter need to be refrigerated? I found some in our box."
"Yes, Marik, but-"
"So then how in the world did we have butter in that box? It should be gross!"
"Well, Marik, if you'd let me fini-"
"I mean it spread just fine! I'm making garlic bread by the way. But, like, seriously, it should be all melty and gross!"
"It marg-"
"Bakura, what kind of sorcerer are you? A butter sorcerer? A condiment master? This is just crazy cool! Why do we even need a refrigerator if you can just-"
"ENOUGH, MARIK!" Bakura screamed. The room fell silent.
Marik's entire body jerked away from the Brit. His eyes darted downwards and terrified red marks appeared on his cheeks. He curled his arms up in front of his chest in the expectation of punishment. Then Bakura remembered. As annoying as Marik could be, as difficult as it sometimes was to listen to him and try to follow his train of thought, he had been so abused in the past...He couldn't behave in this way towards him. He had to be patient for the silly boy's wellbeing.
Bakura sighed. "Marik, I didn't mean it. I'm so sorry."
Tears welled up in Marik's eyes and a solitary drop rolled down his cheek. He couldn't help but remember his father cursing at him and beating him so many years ago. He nodded to indicate that he believed Bakura, but his body betrayed him, shuddering and showing how upset he actually was.
Bakura's heart - or lackthereof - cracked a little. He closed his eyes and focused on calming his voice. He's sweet and cute and sensitive. You have got to learn to be nicer. He reached out and placed a hand on Marik's shoulder.
"Marik, I really am sorry. I didn't mean to be so harsh. I just got upset that you kept interrupting me when I was trying to answer your questions.
Marik mouthed the word, "Okay." Another tear found its pathway down his cheek. He looked upwards and his eyes met Bakura's. They were full to the brim with lavender tinged sadness.
Damn it. He's still upset. What do I do?...Well, you're just going to have to tell him the truth.
Bakura sighed and focused his energies for a moment. It would take a lot of courage to say what he was about to say.
"Marik, you know how I'm always telling you you need to think before you speak and pay attention to your surroundings and…" he thought to himself, maybe I should stop now... "things like that?"
Marik nodded.
"Well, the truth is, we all have faults. I need to work on my…" Bakura gulped, "...patience. I don't have a lot of it, but I do really like you and…"
His voice trailed off. Marik's eyes grew wider, as if they were begging him to continue.
"And what?" he asked in a voice so hushed it was nearly inaudible.
"And I want all of this to work out. So we both need to work on our flaws, " Bakura announced rapidly. The words were pushed out of his throat in one single breath. "So, I promise you, Marik, from now on I'm going to focus on cultivating a little more patience, okay?"
Marik smiled. It was the brightest smile Bakura had ever seen. He seemed so happy, even though tears were still rolling down his face and he was sniffling something awful from crying so much. He nodded again. He really understood this time. Bakura continued up the stairs and Marik turned around to finish the noodles.
Suddenly Bakura stopped. "Wait, Marik!"
"...yes?" Marik called, albeit hesitantly.
"The butter didn't melt because it's actually margarine. Margarine is a synthetic version of butter that doesn't always need to be refrigerated."
He went back up to the bedrooms and formed a makeshift bed for each of them in their respective rooms. Marik's sleeping bag was, of course, a royal purple, and his accompanying blankets were lavender, black, and white. Bakura's were, naturally, navy, with blue blankets. Each had a black pillow. Bakura hoped they would find real beds soon; perhaps in the morning they would travel to IKEA, or maybe not, because that sounded like a nightmare if Marik was involved.
He then set out to move their bedroom decorations from the many boxes in the living room to the bedrooms. He wouldn't arrange Marik's room, but it was the least he could do to put his posters and things in there. As for his own, he brought his boxes into his quarters and began examining what had made its way through Customs. He had managed to bring his antique kettle and four tea cups, a few posters, and his library-sized collection of books. He particularly loved the classics: Wuthering Heights, Great Expectations, Frankenstein, Catcher in the Rye...In addition to those he had several guides to necromancy, divination, meditation, and the occult.
"Oh goodness they made it!"
Bakura couldn't help but squeal as he realized there was a box labeled "dangerous: handle with caution." He knew that could only mean one thing. His knife collection was at least partially there. The contents of that box were none other than his most prized possessions. The machete from Crocodile Dundee, Lord Slashington Smithe, the Cutter, Slashy, Stabby, Gabby, Knifey, Pokey Sharpy….they were all there. Upon inspecting the contents of the box, he realized that not even one was gone. Bakura spent a moment with each one, caressing the handle with his flingers, allowing the blade to slide gently across each of his palms. It was his idea of pure nirvana until suddenly -
"BAKURAAAAA!"
Marik's scream pierced his eardrums. With the force of a thousand cavalry horses, Bakura jumped to his feet and darted out of his bedroom. He shot down the stairs. He took maybe two or three steps before he felt his toes get caught and he went flying forward.
"MARIK I'M FALLING!" he howled, "AHHHHH!"
Bakura clenched his eyes shut instinctively. He didn't want to watch himself tumble down the stairs to his certain doom - or at least his inevitable bone breakage. He wailed the whole way down, felt himself hit the steps once, twice, and finally landed on the floor. It felt soft and warm. The floor was like a cloud.
No, wait. This isn't the floor. This is…
Bakura opened his eyes and say Marik's cheery face staring down at him.
"Hey, Fluffy!" he coed, "It sure looks to me like…"
Marik snickered but didn't finish his sentence. Bakura, at first grateful for being saved from the hard floor, grew impatient. He wanted to be set down.
"Marik," he growled, "What does it look like? I just bloody fell down the stairs!"
Marik burst out in laughter, "It looks like you have FALLEN for me!"
Bakura groaned. Marik set him down lightly on the carpet, as he desired, but continued the obnoxious cackling. In between laughs he managed to say, "dinner is ready," and led Bakura to the table.
He's sort of endearing when he laughs...Bakura couldn't help but think as they ate dinner, during which Marik continued to talk about his antics from earlier.