They lose track of time easily. When you spend years on the road it tends to happen; each day is similar enough that they begin to run together. Months, years…who can tell anymore?
Marik can, occasionally. He knows what day it was the moment he opens his eyes, can feel it somewhere in his chest. December the twenty-third. The same hollow feeling overtakes him, a thrill of old horror as the sun rises higher. The television in their hotel room confirms it before he rushes for the tiny bathroom, dinner from the night before threatening to make a reappearance. His twenty-third birthday. Twenty-three years since his mother's death. Thirteen years since the initiation. Thirteen years since being awoken at dawn, thirteen years since being dragged to the ceremonial chamber, screaming for help that wouldn't come. Thirteen years since the knife and the pain and his father's cruel smile…and he can still feel it all, just below the surface. He wipes a hand across his mouth and crawls to the shower, turning on the water before clambering to his feet.
As his bath heats he hastily strips down, nimble fingers tearing the nightshirt over his head. His hands clutch the dirty porcelain of the sink as he stares into the dual mirrors, eyes skimming over every precise cut, every line, every detail etched into his back. The ancient past, the burden he's had to bear for the last thirteen years. The one he'll bear until the end of his days, as his family has done for the last three-thousand years. The hieroglyphs needed to send the pharaoh to his final resting place. The ones that should have buried the past for good, Atem and Bakura along with it.
It had turned out that Bakura was a lot harder to get rid of than his nemesis had thought.
"You're going to waste all of the hot water." The door opens and the spirit glides in, white hair messy from a rare late sleep. He watches as Marik stares at himself in the mirror, watches the way the purple irises dart over the ancient text. By now he's guessed the date but says nothing: it's up to Marik to call the shots today. Every year before, this day is filled with tears and screaming, with empty glances and silent shudders. A day worth surviving, not celebrating.
The eyes flicker to Bakura's, and Marik holds out a hand. As he takes it the boy pulls him closer, his fingers shaking against the pale skin. Tears fall to the grimy tile, ones that the blond doesn't even realize he's shedding. Very slowly, he raises the hand in his and places it on his back. He notices Bakura's expression of almost surprise and flashes him a shaky smile.
"It's okay." he murmurs, his voice almost inaudible under the running water.
It's not okay. His shoulders quiver, his eyes flitting around the room as if looking for an escape route. Clearly fighting the urge to run. It's not okay.
Bakura takes him into an embrace, letting him bury his face in his shoulder. Arms around the bronze shoulders, he holds them together for as long as it takes, until the sobbing stops. Until Marik's ready. Then he pulls back and gives him a tiny push towards the tub.
"Make it fast," he says. "Breakfast's on me this morning."
Marik gives him a small, pained smile and nods, stepping into the tub and letting the warm water envelop him, mingling with the few stray tears. Bakura closes the door. It's not okay.
But someday it will be.