They sat on the couch, talking more than watching t.v. Bakura leaned back and looked at the ceiling. "I used to be able to drink beer all day long and hardly get buzzed, but the stuff they brew now gives me a headache if I drink too much of it."
"I used to be able to write hieratic without thinking about it, but since I don't use it anymore, I'd have to actually translate it in my head to write it now."
"I do that when I try to think in Middle Egyptian. Modern words keep slipping into my thoughts now."
"Why don't you speak it out loud?"
Bakura shrugged. "It's a dead language. Kinda goes well with my dead village."
Marik turned off the television. "Do you miss them?"
Bakura's face was alabaster, still and white. After a long silence he answered, "yeah."
"You know . . ." Marik paused, debating if he should say the rest. "Rishid and Ishizu . . . they think you're family . . ." he looked at Bakura. "You're my family . . ."
Bakura looked snake-bit, pale and fevered. He hesitated, but eventually rested his head on Marik's shoulder. ". . . I know."