***There's no lemon in this chapter. I have failed as a pwp writer (hahaha)***

The next morning, Bakura walked again. He figured three times around the large city block worked out to be close to five kilometers. Bakura's calves felt like tight knots of fire and ripping muscle, his breath sounded raspy and thin in his ears, and sweat made the black t-shirt he wore cling to his chest, but he forced himself to take step after step until he found himself panting in front of Marik's door with his hands resting on his knees.

He felt weak. He hated weak. Burning coals and hammer strikes were the only way to fold weak ore into a hard steel, so he'd walk until he could run, and then run until he could cartwheel. He'd hammer his flesh into something more than a doll of frail bones and white skin.

Outside Marik's apartment he felt weak, but driven. Each lap served as a goal, something to focus on, and Bakura was realizing that his mind needed such a focal point to function properly.

Inside Marik's he also felt weak, but there was nothing to do. He paced the living room, wandering in an angry haze from room to room with his bangs framing his vision and his hands stuffed in his pockets.

He found himself in the kitchen. The noon light stabbing through the window transformed the room into a golden square. The light striking the tiled floor caught every imperfection. Three crumbs, a streak, and several long, loose, white hairs. Bakura scowled at the hair. He didn't see any golden ones, and it infuriated him to no end that he shed like a stray cat, but Marik seemed immured to the flaw. Stupid body!

He remembered seeing a broom in the closet than housed the vacuum. Bakura snatched it and a dustpan and busied himself sweeping both the kitchen, and bathroom floors. He couldn't find a mop, so he used a kitchen towel to hand mop the floor. His anger grew as he worked. It nestled on top of him like an old, ugly, but oh-so-comfortable sweater he couldn't ever throw away. He hated the current condition of his physical and emotional state, and that manifested into unreasonable hatred for any imperfection in his physical surroundings.

He cleaned the windows next, then the bathroom mirror, which led to scrubbing the entire bathroom from top to bottom, until his hands felt raw and his head spun from the smell of the cleaners he found beneath the sink. He didn't stop. Stopping was never in Bakura's nature, and he scrubbed the bathtub as if he could scrub the self-loathing out of his system, or at least the frailty causing his self-loathing.

The bathroom gleamed. Bakura jumped up to storm the apartment and find what else he could attack with a bucket and scrub brush. As he entered the hallway, however, Bakura felt the world spin. He swayed, trying to catch himself against the wall, but falling onto his ass despite his efforts.

"Stop," he muttered, as if the spinning would obey his verbal command. But it didn't stop. Bakura lay sprawled on top of the hallway carpet, too dizzy to even shift in a more comfortable position. His attempts at rational thought failed, and he must have blacked out because he closed his eyes for half a second, and the next half of the second produced Marik above him – screaming.

"Shhhh," Bakura hissed, wanting Marik's angry words to stop buzzing in his ears. He couldn't sleep with the noise.

"I will not shhhh you asshole! Stay awake!"

"I'm fine."

"You passed out in a hallway! That's not fine!"

Bakura didn't have an answer for the last statement. His brown eyes darted around.

"Are you cold?" Marik asked, touching Bakura's face with his warm, comforting hands.

"I don't think so?"

"Gods, what's that supposed to mean? Are you or are you not cold?"

"I . . . I'm not shivering?"

Marik exhaled, closing his eyes frustration. "How about hungry? When's the last time you ate?"

Damn Marik and his damn questions. Why couldn't he just lay down in the hallway beside him and let him sleep? Bakura took a laborious inhale. "Yesterday?"

"Yesterday! Why haven't you eaten today?"

"I was busy."

"Doing what?" Marik's voice cracked; he verged on hysterics.

Not scrubbing the bathtub.

"Exercising." It sounded less lame than cleaning, and amounted to the same goal – him trying to get his muscles to be something more than useless.

Marik scooped Bakura into his arms again, and Bakura didn't have the energy to protest. Marik set Bakura down beside the refrigerator and on the clean floor, fortunately not noticing how clean the tiles were. He reached into the fridge, pulling a carton of orange juice out and pressing it to Bakura's lips. Most of the bright-colored liquid ended up staining Bakura's chin rather than getting into his mouth.

"Marik . . . stop . . ."

"Your blood sugar is probably low."

"It's hard to swallow. I just need to sleep."

"No!"

Bakura tried to push Marik away, but in his current state he only managed to press his hands against Marik's chest. "I'm not so weak that skipping breakfast will kill me!"

"Quit being stubborn! Don't you get it? It's magic, not a gods-created-miracle. Your body is new. You need to take it easy for a little while."

"This stupid body you made is useless! It's weak! I hate it!"

Marik's eyes clouded in anger, his jaw strained as he spoke. "Well excuse me. I only brought you back from the dead, heaven forbid I don't also keep your stupid, fucking vanity in mind while I risked my life casting the spell."

"I never asked you to!" Bakura shouted.

Although you saved me from darkness and madness.

"No, I did it because I wanted to!" Marik shouted back in Bakura's face.

Bakura sucked in a breath, wanting to shout a rebuttal, but everything seemed to tilt right and Bakura found himself leaning against Marik instead of screaming at him.

Marik lifted Bakura's chin up to force more orange juice on him. The carton was bulky, making it difficult to drink. Bakura coughed and sputtered, pushing the carton away from his mouth again. "You're drowning me."

"Sweet, fucking shit, Bakura." Marik stood up, pouring juice in a glass and then helping Bakura drink.

He managed to swallow most of the liquid that time, and he sat back and waited for the spinning to slow. Marik stayed knelt on the tile beside Bakura. The former spirit turned away. He felt the spilled orange juice drying in a sticky mess on his chin and throat, so he used his shirt to wipe the orange from his skin so he didn't look like a fool.

"Do you feel any better?" Marik asked.

"I feel like I'm on a tilt-a-whirl."

"A what?"

Bakura glanced back at Marik with a scowl. "You're joking, right? Do you really not know what that is?"

The smoky, lavender anger returned to Marik's eyes. "I did live underground for half my life."

"And I was trapped in the Ring. I still managed to learn what a carnival was."

Marik made a disgusted noise in his throat, his hands digging into fists. "Sounds stupid."

"Well I wasn't suggesting we go on a date," Bakura snapped. "I was explaining . . ." Bakura stopped. He pressed his hand against his head. "Can we not have this argument when I'm on the floor and my head is spinning?"

He struggled to get to his feet, using the counter to hold himself upright.

"What are you doing?" Marik grabbed Bakura beneath his arms and helped him upright.

"Going back to the couch. The floor is hard and cold."

"Here, I'll carry you to my bed." Marik tried to scoop Bakura up bridal style once again, but Bakura grabbed Marik's hands to stop him.

"I'm perfectly capable of walking," he hissed.

"Didn't I already tell you to stop being so stubborn." Marik sighed. "At least lean on my shoulder?"

Bakura saw the way his hands shook against the counter. He growled low in his throat before slinging an arm around Marik's neck and shoulders and permitted himself to be half, instead of fully, carried down the hallway. On the bed, Marik pulled off Bakura's t-shirt.

"What are you doing?"

"Don't get so excited, Bakura. Your clothes are covered in orange juice."

Bakura snorted, removing his own pants before Marik tried to help him with that as well. Bakura leaned back against the pillows, and closed his eyes, but Marik shook his shoulders.

"What?" Bakura glared at his partner.

"Don't fall asleep. I'm going to go make dinner, but I need you to stay awake."

Bakura snorted. "Whatever. Just go."

"I mean it, Bakura. Stay awake."

"Yes, mother."

Marik threw up his hands and let them hit his sides. "I give up. Just try to stay alive until dinner. I hate eating leftovers and I'm cooking for the both of us."

Marik left and Bakura stared down at his boxer-clad body, glaring at what he saw. The white skin pulled against his bones. He looked like a skeleton, like bones stripped by scavengers and bleached in the sun. Bakura hid himself with Marik's blanket, realizing as he lay down that he could smell a faint suggestion of Marik's cologne on the pillow cases. He closed his eyes for half a second, enjoying the smell, and the next second Marik was yelling at him again.

"Dammit, Bakura! One thing. One little thing. Don't fall asleep."

Groggy, Bakura grabbed Marik's hand and pressed it again his chest. "Feel that? I'm alive. Stop bitching."

"It's like you're completely oblivious to how much danger you're still in."

Bakura stared at Marik, his eyes burned from keeping them open. "It's not like I fell asleep to piss you off. I'm tired."

"I'm not pissed, I . . ." Marik cut off his own sentence and sighed. "Can you eat?"

Bakura nodded.

"Stay here." Marik disappeared and returned with two plates.

Both dishes had rice smothered in chickpea curry. Bakura's plate had a roundhouse steak on the side of the curry. He grinned at the food, his stomach growling at the sight of it. They ate in silence. When finished, Bakura handed his plate to Marik. "Thanks."

Marik took the plate and stacked it on top of his own. "Still tired?"

Bakura nodded his head.

"Give me a minute." Marik left again. Bakura heard water running in the kitchen as Marik washed their dinner dishes.

When he returned the the bed, he sat down, scooped Bakura into his arms, and leaned back against the headboard. "Okay, you can sleep."

"Uh . . . like this?" Bakura lay in Marik's arms and on his chest.

"It's the easiest way to monitor your heartbeat and breathing while you sleep."

"Marik," Bakura said, as calmly as he could. "Stop worrying. I'm not dying."

"Bakura, do you know anything about the spell that brought you back?"

"Not really."

"Then shut the fuck up and go to sleep."

Bakura had no intention of arguing further. He rather enjoyed using Marik as a pillow. Bakura lay on his stomach, and he wrapped his arms around Marik's waist.

"Bakura? What are you—"

"I have no where else to put my arms." Bakura smirked at his excuse, nuzzling into Marik's stomach. "You're the one that insisted I sleep like this, so put up with me getting comfortable."

Marik grunted and Bakura nuzzled his belly a second time. He could feel the ridges of damaged tissue on Marik's back, and Bakura found himself working his fingers up and down the small of Marik's back. The last thing he heard before dropping back into a hard sleep, was the content noise Marik made as Bakura's fingers danced across his back.

The next morning Bakura woke to sunlight. He felt disoriented, but more than that, he felt an unsettling sense of peace and comfort. The experience was such a complete opposite to his time spent in the Ring, that Bakura physically panicked, scrambling away from the arms holding him.

"Bakura," Marik whispered when Bakura removed himself.

Bakura blinked at Marik, still in his clothes from the day before, and still in the same position from the day before. Bakura realized that Marik had sacrificed his evening and night to watch Bakura instead. The thought made Bakura want to lean forward and kiss Marik, but his fight or flight reflex won out, and Bakura snuck out of bed. He showered and dressed and decided to make breakfast so Marik didn't scold him to eat.

Marik stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing his neck. He snorted at their breakfast. "Good, I was going to scream at you if you skipped meals again today."

Bakura set a plate of toast and eggs in front of Marik, steak and eggs awaited on Bakura's plate. "I figured I better. If I pass out again you'll force me to spend another night cuddling instead of getting laid."

"Yes." Marik frowned at his plate. "That's your punishment, having to lay beside me."

Bakura didn't like the look on Marik's face. He sat down, leaning over his plate a bit to ensure Marik heard him. "We're still drinking tonight, right?"

Marik looked up, his expression thoughtful. "I'm not sure . . ."

"I'm fine."

"If I bring home alcohol, do you promise to take it easy while I'm at work?"

"Anything for alcohol," Bakura said, he meant it as a joke, but Marik didn't laugh.

Bakura wanted to do something to make Marik seem less melancholy, and he felt a powerful need to kiss Marik before he walked out the door. As Marik prepared to leave, Bakura reached out. "Wait, Marik."

Marik pivoted, turning back to look at Bakura with a question mark for an expression.

"Uh . . . you have fuzz in your hair," Bakura lied, using the excuse to run his fingers through the beautiful gold framing Marik's face.

"Did you get it?"

"Yeah," Bakura muttered.

A slight smile did find its way on Marik's face. "Thanks. See you this afternoon."

After Marik left, Bakura sat on the couch, flipping through channel after channel, going back to the beginning and starting over again in a never-ending circle of uninteresting shows. He wanted to walk, perhaps go back to the bookstore for more graphic novels, but he didn't want to risk blacking out again. Not that he really cared, but he didn't want to deal with Marik's reaction, so he stayed on the couch like an obedient dog, and flipped through channels.

A knock on the door alleviated Bakura's boredom. He checked the peep-hole, knowing that Marik still kept in touch with Bakura's old enemies and not wanting to have to deal with the morons. He saw a white, mirror image of himself through the peep hole and opened the door.

"You're hair looks like shit," Bakura said.

Ryou smiled at him, inviting himself into Marik's apartment. "You shouldn't talk. You look a bit like road kill."

Bakura scowled at Ryou's rebuttal.

Ryou leaned closer, examining Bakura's face. "You have anemia. I can tell by the circles under your eyes, and from what Marik says you're also hypoglycemic."

Bakura crossed his arms over his chest and snorted. "So? Who cares? I wouldn't be so messed up if you weren't such a weakling. I should have picked a stronger host."

Ryou closed his eyes and sighed, opening his eyes again and setting his mouth into a stubborn line for a moment before speaking. "Okay, Bakura. You and I need to have a little adult conversation, and I need you to be reasonable during this talk, yeah? Let's sit down."

Bakura growled, choosing the kitchen because he refused to sit next to Ryou on the couch. "Go ahead and get this lecture over with."

"It's not a lecture. It's a talk. Look, after you left, I was sick all the time. I had to go to the doctor, and I found out I had some of same problems that you have now – dietary anemia, hypoglycemia, low blood pressure. You spent so much time plotting vengeance that you'd forget to eat a sandwich now and then, and it messed up my body. It took me a long time to fix everything and be healthy again."

Bakura blinked at Ryou. He hadn't known how badly he had damaged his host in the short time they shared one body.

Ryou continued. "Normally it takes nine months to create a human body. Marik cheated, a lot, and used magic. So you're here, but you're not completely done yet. Your body is still trying to regulate things like iron and sugar. Now you have two choices: grind your teeth, get pissed off, and flail around in an angry fit until your body crashes and burns and you die – or accept the fact that you're not an invincible dark-god, you're just a person like the rest of us now, and take care of yourself."

"It was one day," Bakura snapped. "I already ate breakfast. You and Marik are the biggest pains in my ass ever."

"You need to eat five times a day."

"Five times? That's ridiculous!"

"They can be small meals. What's important is that you eat something, and at consistent intervals of the day. The more consistent the schedule the better. Also, quit running around so much. You need to move around and get used to your body, but not to the point of exhaustion. That's counterproductive. Marik said you slept the entire day and night yesterday. You obviously overdid it."

"Look at this." Bakura stuck out his slender, white twig of an arm. "I'm skinnier than you!"

"After your body gets an equilibrium going, you'll be able to build some muscle."

"How long is that going to take?"

Ryou shrugged. "Nine months? I'm not sure, really. That kinda depends on how well you follow my advice."

"You're a dick," Bakura muttered.

Ryou smiled, gesturing to a backpack near his feet. "Oh, by the way, I brought you my collection of Blade the Immortal."

Bakura perked up as he glanced at the backpack. He remembered the a few issues of the manga from before. One of the main characters was an angry girl trying to avenge the death of her family. "Hmmm, you're slightly less of a dick."

Ryou smiled and stood up. "Come on. Let's go to the store. I can show you what kind of snacks you need."

Bakura didn't want to admit it, but he didn't mind dealing with Ryou. He wasn't a social person, but his former host was a nice distraction from Bakura's usual thoughts. Ryou spoke a little of starting college, but mostly about the Monster World Campaign he was working on.

Ryou helped Bakura put away the groceries they purchased, finding which cupboard items belonged in quicker than Bakura could. "I bought a new laptop for college. I'll give you my old one so we can game."

Bakura flinched at the suggestion. "Why?"

"Why game? What kind of retarded question is that, Bakura? I'm an otaku, that's why."

"No, you idiot. Why game with me?"

Ryou frowned as if Bakura still spoke nonsense. "Because it will be fun? That is why people play games, you know. To have fun."

"I'm aware," Bakura grumbled.

"Oh, okay. Just making sure, since you never seemed to understand that concept before."

"Trying to kill your friends was incredibly fun." Bakura stopped unloading groceries to stare at Ryou. "Which is why I don't understand what you're doing here."

Ryou put his hands on his hips. "You know what I haven't eaten forever? Cream puffs. I'm going to make some."

"Ryou."

Ryou shrugged, digging through Marik's cupboards for bowls and measuring cups. "Marik's my friend, Bakura."

"So you're babysitting me because he's a spaz?"

"He's not a spaz – you're irresponsible and not taking care of yourself."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You keep leaning against the counter because you're fatigued, and you keep fidgeting because you're anxious. You existed for a single goal for over three-thousand years, and now it's gone. I can only imagine the stress that would cause, but I know what would help. A hobby." Ryou took a few steps closer. "You know, maybe something more thought provoking that scrubbing the bathroom?"

Bakura's eyes widened. "Who said anything about that?"

"You left the cleaning supplies in the bathroom when you passed the fuck out in the hallway yesterday. Marik texted me while he made dinner and we talked about it."

Bakura clenched his teeth together, growling like an animal, warning Ryou to drop the conversation.

Ryou glared at Bakura in return. "Have you even told Marik you love him yet?"

Bakura choked on Ryou's words. "Of course not!"

"Why the hell not?"

"It's not like that – we're just fucking."

"Oh bullshit." Ryou went back to the counter, measuring the ingredients for the pastry and mixing them together. "Fucking is what happens when you're at the club and you see a guy with a nice ass and the perfect pair of shoes for his outfit, so you take him home, and in the morning ask if he has cab fare before you roll over and go back to sleep. When you spend a shit ton of money faking an archeological dig for the museum your sister works for as a pretense to find a scrap of red cloth to bring back someone from the dead? That's something a little more than booty-call, Bakura. Gods, you're so stupid!"

Bakura stepped back, sitting down in his chair. "He . . . did that?"

"He didn't tell you? Yes. They dug up half the desert near the existing Kul Elna. They found one of your old stashes of stolen treasure so there was a lot to donate to the museum, but it was all a show to see if they could find anything, anything at all, that would work for the spell. It had to be something strongly associated with you. All they found was a small, faded rag that used to be scarlet."

Bakura shivered. There was something unsettling, thinking that the only thing that remained of yourself was a scrap of cloth. "I didn't know it was such a big deal."

"Yeah, it was. I guess Marik didn't tell you because he didn't want you to know how badly he wanted you back." Ryou smiled, as if daydreaming. "That's all he'd talk about, Bakura. How much he missed you. How you helped him when he needed it, and how he missed you, although he thought he was stupid for feeling that way." Ryou sighed, wiping flour onto his jeans and pulling a chair next to Bakura so they could look eye level at each other. "Let me take back what I said about you being stupid – you're both stupid, not just you – both of you always have to pretend you're so damn tough, but dammit, Bakura, you know Marik disassociates. Man-up and tell him how you feel because it's not fair to expect him to say it first when he did all the work bringing you back."