Baking in Italy

by Jem Kallop

Bakura owns a bakery in Italy when he receives an unwanted visitor. Simple thiefshipping oneshot, no smut, rated for language.

Bakura moved carefully. He crouched in front of the vast oven, lips pursing as he stared intently at the cake inside. It had to rise just to perfection before he pulled it out; the slightest bit over or under and it would never meet his standards. His brow creased.

…Now.

Bakura lunged forwards and whipped the oven door open, lifting the cake out with practised ease. It glistened a warm golden brown, the cherries inside evenly spaced, the sponge inviting and just waiting to be iced. But first, it had to cool. Bakura slid the cake out onto the waiting tray, pausing to breathe in its scent. It was utter perfection. He smirked, safe in the knowledge that this would be one of his best. His bakery was not about to lose its reputation.

Once he was absolutely sure the cake was secure on the counter, Bakura span, wiping his floury hands on his apron. Whilst the cake was cooling, he had time to make the icing. He hummed softly to himself as he scooped up a bowl, ensuring to move onto a separate counter well away from the cooling sponge, standing near the back door as he began to mix icing sugar with a few drops of water. The gleaming rays of sunset angled through the open windows, the warm Italian air cooling to a pleasant temperature. Bakura paused in his mixing for a moment to go and unlatch the door. A breeze soon rustled through the small back kitchen, ruffling Bakura's hair and rattling a few of the haphazardly stacked pots, but Bakura barely paid them any attention as he continued to mix.

A sudden, loud crash startled him out of his focus.

Bakura's head shot up, almost dropping the bowl of icing. The back door stood blown completely wide open, and a new shape had invaded his kitchen – a shape with blond hair and an odd purple robe covering their body. Before Bakura had any time to think passed that, the shape had barrelled straight into him, knocking him flat on his back. The icing bowl went flying.

"Get down!"

"Get the bloody hell off me!" Bakura growled dangerously, attempting to stand, but a heavy warm weight that felt suspiciously like another body crashed against his chest, holding him down on the ground. He snarled and lashed out. "Get off!"

"Ah!" A startled shriek echoed in the air, followed by a sharp rustle of movement. The warmth on Bakura's chest shifted and a huffy, offended voice met his ears. "You hit me!"

"You jumped on top of me!" Bakura snarled in response.

"I had to! They were chasing me and –" the newcomer's voice cut off immediately and the warmth crashed back into Bakura's chest, almost suffocating him. The voice hissed in his ear, "Stay quiet!"

Bakura would have snapped back a sharp, sarcastic retort, but footsteps sounded by the open door of his shop. A lot of footsteps. He went still, trying to see passed the mess of blond hair shoved in his face, but all he could make out were a couple of shadowy movements and the sound of muffled, gruff shouts. The weight on top of him pressed closer, more blond hair getting shoved into Bakura's nose. He resisted the urge to sneeze.

"Stay quiet," hissed the new, nasally voice of the stranger.

Bakura growled. "Get the bloody hell off…"

"I said shut up." A hand dug into Bakura's mouth, much to his horror. He twisted his head to try and get away but the weight on top of him was too much, keeping him very effectively pinned in place. He snarled inwardly. This idiot is going to get it…

The footsteps continued passed the door, shadows flickering across the open doorway at an alarming rate. Bakura stayed very still, not that he had much option; the weight against his chest was very insistent. He growled against the hand mashed against his lips. He was going to make this person pay just as soon as he could move again.

Eventually, the footsteps ended, and the weight on top of Bakura shifted again. Blond hair fell in his vision. The hand removed from his mouth and Bakura sat up, giving a violent shove to the person so that they went rolling across the floor.

"Ah!" A startled squeak left the other's mouth.

Bakura gave a cruel laugh as he sat up, glaring across the darkened, shadowed shop at the form of the stranger. "What, you're happy to shove others but don't like being shoved back?"

"You pushed me!" The other voice was much more nasally than Bakura's dark, dulcet tone, and it seemed to match the bright blond hair he had briefly seen. The shadows shifted a little. "No one does that to me."

"I just did," Bakura growled. "Now get out of my shop."

"Wait – this is a shop?" The other person moved again, getting to their feet and apparently glancing around.

Bakura snarled. "None of your business. Get out."

The other person completely ignored him. Instead, he turned around, taking in the various worktops and the huge oven, with the cake sitting on the side. "Oh, I see, a bakery. I wondered what the smell was."

"How many times do I have to tell you to leave?" Bakura growled. He got slowly to his feet, bending down to pick up the bowl he had dropped and mourning the icing that was now all over the floor.

Footsteps sounded, and Bakura assumed that the stranger was leaving. He turned to place the bowl back on the counter when he saw the shape still standing over by the door. He frowned. "…What are you still doing here?"

"Shush," the other snapped peremptorily. "I'm trying to listen."

Bakura snarled. "This is my shop, and I told you to leave."

"I said shut up!" The stranger hissed, flapping an annoyed hand in Bakura's direction. Blond hair glinted through the shadows as the figure moved back towards the door, peering out of the shop and into the cool night air. A breeze blew around the kitchen.

"Will you shut that door," Bakura snapped. "You're going to ruin the temperature in here."

The stranger gave an exaggerated eye-roll, turning away from the door to glare pointedly. "You're so prissy."

"You have absolutely no idea how precise I have to keep this place," Bakura growled back, "So get out, and close the door as you leave."

"I'm not going anywhere." A small smile lifted the lips of the stranger, and he placed one hand on his hip and shook his blond hair back out of his face. Bakura caught a hint of lightly browned skin.

Bakura's brown eyes narrowed. "What the hell do you mean?"

"I mean, I'm not going anywhere." Much to Bakura's horror, the stranger started to move towards him with sharp, confident footsteps. "I'm famished."

"Good for you," Bakura sneered.

The stranger released a golden laugh, continuing to move closer to Bakura, who slid back just one step. "Ah, you see, I only mention it because I appear to be in a rather fine bakery."

"You're not touching any of my creations," Bakura growled automatically.

"I don't think you can stop me." One brown hand inched towards the cake on the counter, but Bakura instantly reached forwards and slapped it away.

"I am warning you," Bakura growled, quickly darting in front of the cake and hovering protectively, "Get out of my shop."

The stranger merely chuckled. "Ah, come on. That cake's just sitting there, and you won't be able to sell it now you've spilt the icing all over the floor."

"And that's your damned fault too." Bakura growled, still refusing to move.

"I can add to it if you like."

"What do you-" Before Bakura could finish, the stranger had moved again, much faster than he anticipated. He barely had time to lift his fists before the warm weight was crashing against his chest again, dragging him away from the counter. Bakura grappled and fought, snarling, but he was shoved away and before he knew it, the cake was on the floor.

"Bastard!" Bakura gnashed his teeth, advancing towards the stranger in a dangerous crouch.

Another irritating golden laugh met his ears. "There, now the cake matches the icing."

"You didn't need to spill it on the floor, you idiot!" Bakura all but howled. "You have no idea how long it took me to make that!"

"From your reaction, clearly too long," the stranger chuckled back. "I probably did you a favour."

"How in the hell did you do me a favour?!" Bakura's cheeks were flushed as he grew more and more irate. "You spoiled my best sell!"

"Look at it this way," the stranger hummed thoughtfully. "Now, you get a life back."

Bakura's teeth ground together. His jaw clicked. "This bakery is my life, you cloaked fool!"

The stranger grinned, a flash of white teeth snipping through the shadows. "'Cloaked fool'? I rather like that one. I might have to adopt it."

"Whatever, as long as you do so elsewhere." Bakura growled. He turned away, throwing his hands in the air as he surveyed the mess of sponge and icing decorating his once-pristine kitchen floor.

A sniff sounded behind him, accompanied by more footsteps. "But that would waste the cake."

"What are you…" Bakura went very tense when he sensed a figure coming to stand next to him. The stranger was far too close.

Without so much as a word, the stranger crouched and began to scoop up some of the collapsed sponge, turning his head up to send Bakura a curious glance. "Don't you have any plates in here?"

"…" Bakura remained very, very still. "…Why would you want plates?"

"So we can eat the cake." The stranger's eyes glittered with amusement, and in the strange light they almost seemed to glow violet.

Bakura shook his head slowly, passing one hand over his brow. "What makes you think you're welcome here? I've told you numerous times to get out."

"And I'm still here." The stranger shrugged before picking up more of the sponge into his hands. "You really need to get plates. I'm not eating directly off the floor."

"You're not eating in here at all."

The stranger laughed again. "Will you quit being so overdramatic and just get me something to put this on? Or I'll find more of your cakes to throw on the floor."

Bakura slapped one palm to his forehead. "…You know what? Fine. Whatever gets you out of here faster." He turned away with a snarl, wiping his hands on his black apron as he headed to a cupboard in a corner and dragged out a plate. He tossed it unceremoniously at the idiot stranger's head. "There's your damned plate."

Much to Bakura's surprise, the stranger caught the plate in one deft hand. He sent Bakura a grin. "Much better."

"…Impressive," Bakura begrudgingly grunted.

The stranger released a golden laugh as he began to pile the plate with the remnants of the cake. "Glad you approve."

Bakura merely grunted. He leaned against one of the counters, watching the stranger crouched on his kitchen floor beginning to clean up the mass of crumbs and sponge that had once been Bakura's most prized creation. It was an almost surreal situation. A long purple robe drifted across the ground behind the stranger, his blond hair falling just passed his shoulders – long for a male, although Bakura himself had longer hair. There was a difference, though. Whilst Bakura couldn't be bothered to cut his hair so it grew into a long, scraggly rat's nest, this stranger's blond locks appeared to be perfectly styled.

"Are you just going to ogle me all day?" The stranger lifted his head to send Bakura a cheeky grin.

Bakura instantly rocketed upright. "I am doing no such thing!"

"Suuuure." The stranger stretched out the syllable with a chuckle. "I can feel your stare from all the way over here."

Bakura growled. "Then you're hallucinating."

The stranger shrugged. "I'm used to it, don't panic. I'm so handsome I always get people staring at me."

Bakura was almost positive he would feel steam coming out of his ears at any given moment. After a long moment's pause, he turned his back on the stranger and closed his eyes, his hands curled into tight fists by his sides. Count to 100. He will be gone soon. Breathe slowly…

"I'm Marik, by the way," the stranger spoke conversationally. It sounded like his mouth was full of cake, and sure enough, when Bakura turned back, he was leaning against the counter with that ridiculous purple robe pulled closed around him, the plate of ruined cake held in one hand. He swallowed. "In case you're wondering who's invaded your shop."

"I don't care who's invaded my shop," Bakura snarled in response. "I just want you to get out."

"Rude." Marik sniffed and stuck his nose in the air.

Bakura glared. "I call rude barging uninvited into someone's property."

"It was an emergency." Marik shrugged easily, casting a long, interested glance around the rest of the kitchen. He hummed. "I might have to remember this place, though. It's tucked right out of the way, and it has good food."

"If I ever catch you in here again, I'll tear your ears off," Bakura growled flatly.

Marik merely grinned at him. "You could try."

"I'm warning you, brat…"

"Yeah, yeah, get out, I know." Marik waved a hand in Bakura's direction, setting the much-emptier plate down on the side. "I guess I'll leave you be for now. Just don't be too surprised if you see me again, right?"

"You'd better fucking hope I don't," Bakura snarled. When he looked up, however, the kitchen was empty once again, and all he was left with was the plate on the counter, a few crumbs on the floor, and a bowl of ruined icing.

The next couple of weeks were busy in his bakery. As Bakura begrudgingly served his customers, glaring at any who dared to ask him questions, he briefly wondered why he stubbornly refused to employ anyone else. It would save him having to deal with members of the public. But, in the end, he decided he was far too attached to his own precious creations to allow anyone else within five metres of them.

Just as it was nearing closing time, the bell above the door tinkled once again. Bakura glanced up from behind the counter, and his eyes instantly narrowed when he caught a flash of blond hair. "You!"

"Aw, you remember me? How sweet." It was the same nasally voice, the same bright grin, the same bright violet eyes sent Bakura's way. However, now, they were not set in some dark stranger's cowled face; they were smirking down at him from a young, smooth, adolescent body.

Bakura's eyes narrowed. "What the hell are you doing back here?"

"I told you not to be surprised if you saw me again." The stranger – Marik – shrugged. He stepped lightly up to the counter. "And I want a slice of your best cake."

Bakura glared. "There's a queue."

Marik sent an exaggerated look the line of people staring dangerously at him, still grinning. "So there is. Give me cake."

"Get to the back of the queue," Bakura growled menacingly.

Marik simply stepped closer. He rested both his elbows on the counter and leaned right over, until he was right in Bakura's face; an odd scent of spiced lavender exuded from his brown skin. Marik's grin turned positively feral. "Or I could just stay here."

Bakura remained still for a few moments, caught in the trap of those bright violet eyes, before (with difficulty) he pulled himself away. "…You'll be waiting a long time," he responded stiffly.

"I can live with that." There was laughter in Marik's tone.

Bakura turned away from him, resisting the urge to simply punch him in the face as he turned to serve his next customer. Knocking out potential buyers was not going to do the publicity of his bakery any good. And yet, Marik would not leave. For the rest of the day, that irritating grin haunted Bakura's every movement, until all the other customers were seen to and almost all his produce had been sold. Bakura slammed the door shut for the day, purposefully turning the closed sign over with a savage, satisfied grin, before he turned to glare at his unwanted guest. "You can go now."

"But I still haven't had my cake." Marik's grin shifted into an almost-pout. He was lounging against the counter, dressed in a frankly ridiculous outfit. Even if the Italian summer was meltingly warm, that did not excuse a shirt cut-off that high, although Bakura couldn't stop himself from noticing that Marik's stomach was flat and attractively toned. He shook his head. "You're not getting cake."

"No fair." There was mirth bubbling away in the background of Marik's tone. "You don't get to stand there and ogle me without me getting some kind of payback."

Bakura instantly flared. "I was not ogling you!"

"We're not having this conversation again." Marik grinned. He leapt agilely up onto the counter, sitting on its shining surface and swinging his legs easily.

Bakura advanced with a growl. "Get your filthy ass off my worktop."

"I'll do no such thing," Marik sniffed haughtily, "And I'll have you know my ass is not filthy."

"I don't give a damn about your ass." Bakura growled.

Marik chuckled. "Now I know you're lying. Everyone cares about my ass."

"…Get out of my shop."

A burst of golden laughter left Marik's lips, and it reminded Bakura of the first night he had come here, almost exactly two weeks ago. It felt like Marik had been laughing at him the whole time then as well. Now, the blond-haired brat was sitting on his counter and grinning at him, looking entirely too much at home. "I don't want to leave yet."

"If I give you cake, will you get out?" Bakura growled. "And you still owe me for ruining the last one."

Marik shrugged easily. "I am paying you back. You get my company again."

"You are fucking insufferable." Bakura brushed his hands on his apron and strode behind the counter, deciding his best approach could well be to ignore the fool until he got bored and left. He opened the door leading to the kitchen and flipped the light on, but before he could take a step forwards, a warm hand was grasping onto his shoulder.

"Get off me!" Bakura snarled, pulling out of Marik's grip and spinning to level a dangerous glare in his direction.

Marik had moved off the counter to stand right behind Bakura. He was still grinning. "But you haven't got my cake yet."

"I told you…" before Bakura could say anything else, Marik had pushed passed him and moved back into the kitchen. He stared around with glittering violet eyes. Bakura stood still for a few moments, his expression ranging between mild shock and uncontained wrath, before he moved up behind Marik again. His voice was a dangerous growl. "Get. Out."

"You make a very impolite host." Marik moved further into the kitchen.

Bakura glowered at him. "Are you running away from someone again? My kitchen is not a hideout."

"I beg to differ." Marik hummed. "It's very comfortable. And out of the way. And everyone's too scared of you to come this far into the shop, so no one would find me."

Everyone apart from you, brat. Bakura didn't once take his eyes off Marik's form, following him as he wended his way around the kitchen, peering into the various shelves of ingredients. Bakura crossed his arms and scowled. "Don't touch anything."

"You take the fun out of everything." Marik turned back to send Bakura a full-on pout, although those violet eyes never failed to glitter with wicked intent. Bakura was growing in certainty that he couldn't trust a single word this odd young man ever said.

"Why are you here?" Bakura asked flatly.

Marik's eyes widened, his expression almost shifting into hurt. "You mean I can't just drop in and see you whenever I like?"

"Hell no."

"See? No fun." Marik shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Bakura growled, his tone almost becoming pained. "Why are you here?"

"If you must know," Marik murmured breezily, examining the fingernails of one hand, "I'm hiding out again."

Bakura rolled his eyes. "Being chased again?"

Marik nodded, grinning again. "In my defence, by different people this time. Last time was the police, this is just some private investigator or other."

Bakura arched a slightly-interested brow despite himself. He leaned a little closer to Marik. "And what have you done to warrant getting chased, hm?"

Marik's grin shifted slyly. "I might have stolen something."

"And you got caught?" Bakura shook his head. "I'm disappointed in you."

"What do you know about it?" Marik sniffed, folding his arms, and for the first time he actually looked disgruntled.

Bakura grinned. "A lot more than you, I'd be willing to bet."

Marik's pout only increased at those words. Rather than making him look like a small, irritating child, though, the expression bizarrely seemed to suit him. Bakura couldn't help but notice how those attractive violet eyes widened to impossible depths.

Bakura leaned against the counter with a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Why have you picked here to hide?"

"I'm not hiding," Marik's tone was almost a whine, "I'm … evading."

"There's absolutely no difference between those words."

Marik sniffed. "Yeah, well, I don't care. They won't find me here." He glanced around the kitchen before flicking another look at Bakura, flashing him another bright grin. "Where are you hiding your cake?"

Bakura's expression instantly dropped into a frown. "After last time, do you really think I'd be stupid enough to show you?"

"I don't know," Marik shrugged with a wicked glint in his eyes, "You did let me back in here."

Bakura growled. "I think you'll find you barged your way in."

Marik's grin only widened. He stretched up in the air, arms reaching high above his head so that his purple top rode up even higher than it was already cut off. "If you give me cake, I'll give you something in return."

Bakura, despite himself, arched a brow. "What would you give me?"

"I have a few ideas." Marik's eyes were dancing.

Bakura's eyes half-lidded and he all but purred, "You sure? I'm a dangerous man to be indebted to."

"I don't doubt that." Marik's grin didn't drop. "Partly why I came back."

"Oh?"

Marik shrugged. "Your shop is hidden from sight. Your back door opens onto an alley that conveniently leads straight out of the city. And you know a lot about stealing for a mere baker."

"…Fair point." Bakura pushed off the counter and took a step closer to Marik, his eyes narrowing dangerously, his voice lowering. "Whatever you give me had better be worth it, or you'll find out just how dangerous I can be."

Marik didn't appear phased in the slightest. "I wouldn't expect anything different."

Bakura smirked slightly, holding Marik's gaze for a moment longer before he turned away and moved to a cupboard in the corner. He pulled out a couple of small muffins and threw one in Marik's direction. "There."

Marik deftly caught the cake, bringing it to his lips. He smirked. "Cherries again?"

"You wanted my best," Bakura responded evenly.

"I'll be the judge of that." Marik was grinning again even as he took a bite.

Bakura, despite himself, watched Marik closely as he ate. There was something exotic about the young man's appearance, and not just the colour of his skin or hair – it was in the way he moved, the odd scent that surrounded him, and just … the aura of him. As if he was untouchable.

The cake was finished in a few bites. Marik looked up and instantly met Bakura's gaze, although if he was bothered that Bakura had been staring, he certainly didn't show it. His chin lifted a little arrogantly.

Bakura arched a brow. "Well?"

"Well what?" Marik blinked in a show of innocence, but Bakura wasn't fooled for an instant.

Bakura resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "What do you think?"

Marik smirked and took a step towards Bakura, slowly closing the distance between them. "About the cake?"

"Of course about the cake," Bakura snapped gruffly, "What the hell else?"

"Well." Marik took another step closer, and Bakura found his back suddenly pressed against the counter. His eyes narrowed. Marik met his eyes, and he was still grinning. "The cake was good."

"Of course it was," Bakura growled, and he was surprised when his voice came out gruffer than expected. "It's one of mine."

Marik took another step closer, and now his scent was surrounding Bakura, holding him in place. His grin was dangerously close. "I won't argue with that."

"And?" Bakura's chin lifted – to his irritation, this brat was taller than him. "You said you'd give me something."

"So I did." Marik was still grinning. His face inched closer and closer, and for a moment Bakura considered pushing him away, but before he had the chance something soft was pressed to his lips. He closed his eyes instinctively. A warm hand was on his shoulder, and Bakura's arms lifted of their own accord, winding around the warm body before him and pulling it closer. He was actually holding someone … that was never supposed to happen…

Almost as soon as it had begun, the kiss was over, and Marik stepped back. Bakura's arms fell back to his sides. When he looked up, Marik was grinning at him again, and the expression was still wicked. "Enough for you?"

"…No." Bakura growled.

Marik let out a soft, golden laugh, before he turned away towards the door. "Ah, shame. I'll have to do better next time."

"Next time?" Bakura arched a brow. "Who's saying I'll let you back in here?"

Marik paused in the doorway to send a sultry glance over one shoulder. "You didn't let me in this time, and I'll make it worth your while."

"You'd better." Bakura folded his arms and smirked.

Marik chuckled again, lifting one hand in a wave as he sauntered out of the door. It snapped shut behind him, but Bakura was absolutely convinced that that would not be the last he saw of Marik.