Here is chapter 3! I feel like not very much is happening in this story so far, but it does get more interesting. All my stories seem to start slow ... just bear with me. ^_^ Thanks to all who have read and reviewed, faved and followed, I am very grateful. Enjoy this chapter! - Jem

The next few evenings passed in relative peace, and Marik was surprised by how quickly he settled in to his new routine. His classes were easygoing, leaving him plenty of time to pursue his own interests, which currently were drawing in his room, playing games on his laptop and finding out everything he possibly could about his disagreeable flatmate. Yami proved to be an invaluable source where this was concerned, as he had grown up with Bakura and knew far more about his past than he would let on. Marik found himself in the same seminar group as Yami, and as such had plenty of opportunities to quiz him about the pale bastard Marik was forced to live with.

"You shouldn't judge him so harshly," Was Yami's favourite response to Marik's constant complaints. "He's had a hard life."

"Who hasn't?" Marik would usually reply, his voice laced with bitterness mostly aimed at himself. Yami had quizzed Marik about his own past, but the Egyptian remained close-lipped on the subject, often just standing up and moving desks if Yami ever brought the subject up.

"Alright," Yami conceded with a small smile, his hands effortlessly taking notes on the lecture whilst simultaneously holding a quiet conversation with his neighbour. "I know Bakura isn't the only one who has had a lot to deal with, but you are being a little harsh. He came here to escape, after all."

Marik had grunted at that, muttering, "Well, he should go escape somewhere else. Preferably far away from me. What has he even got to complain about, anyway? He's a brilliant musician studying at a top university; his career is pretty much made, right? What the fuck has he got to worry about?"

Yami merely shook his head, his lips turning downward. "You speak of what you don't know, Marik."

"Well maybe if you told me, I wouldn't be so judgemental."

"Why do you even care?" Yami actually looked away from the presentation the professor was giving to fix Marik with a knowing stare. "If you hate him as much as you claim to, why are you so interested in him?"

That brought Marik up short. He blinked, temper flaring as he hissed lowly, right into Yami's ear. "I am not interested in him. He's a bastard, and I want to know why. That's perfectly acceptable when I have to fucking live with him."

Yami had shot him a disbelieving look. "If you hated him that much, you'd have moved out by now."

"What the fuck do you think I've been trying to do?" Marik crossed his arms, abandoning his own meagre notes in favour of glaring at his pale neighbour. "The only thing I've done since getting here is try and move out!"

Yami shook his head. "Well, if you've legitimately tried as hard as you said, and you're still stuck with him, maybe you should try and be a bit more understanding. If you want to know so much about him, then just ask him yourself."

Marik bit back the obvious retort – that Bakura would most likely stab him if he tried something like that – as the lecture ended and it was time to escape. He was out of his seat in moments, notebook shoved back in his bag, but Yami remained in his seat, effectively blocking Marik's exit. The Egyptian coughed, loudly. "Yami, you're in my way. Move."

Yami didn't even seem to hear him, his gaze fixed as it was somewhere by the door, where all the other students were leaving. Marik kicked the leg of his chair, trying to get his attention, and Yami quickly snapped back round to look at him. "Oh, sorry, Marik. Am I in your way?"

Marik merely rolled his eyes in response, sighing impatiently as he waited for Yami to gather his stuff together. Unfortunately, he wasn't quick enough, as a light-hearted voice sounded from somewhere above them. "Oh, hello! You're Yami, right? I've seen you around, been meaning to talk to you!"

Yami visibly stiffened, his back ramrod straight as he slowly turned to face the girl now addressing him. Marik watched with barely-concealed amusement as his face turned a little pink; the girl was nothing special, short brown hair and wide blue eyes, but Yami seemed pretty interested. Marik held back a snicker at his next words. "Oh, hello, um ... Tea, isn't it?"

The brunette nodded, a smile lighting her features. Her face instantly seemed easier on the eye when a smile danced around her mouth. "Yep, that's me. It's nice to finally meet you – I think you live in my block?"

"You're in the flat above me." Yami's voice was quiet, but it thrummed with a sincerity that Marik hadn't heard before.

The girl called Tea laughed a little. "Oh, really? I didn't know that! You're going to have to come up sometime, my flatmates are all really lovely, it would be great to get to know you!"

Yami stuttered out some form of assent and Tea laughed, waving cheerily over one shoulder as she continued on her way to the exit. Yami stared after her for a long moment, his cheeks fading back to pale when she was out of sight. Marik released a low chuckle when she was gone. "Guess you've been watching her for a while then, hm?"

Yami jumped, turning with surprise to see Marik grinning at him. "N-no! I just ... I've, seen her around, that's all. She does live in the same block."

"Suuure." Marik stretched out the syllable with a small shake of his head. "Anyway, will you get out of my way now? I would like to get back to my flat."

Yami obediently gathered the rest of his things and headed out of the row, falling into step beside Marik as they headed out of the building. "Remember, talk to Bakura. If you have to live with him, you may as well find a way to get along."

"I won't be with him for long," Marik promised, his voice dripping. "I'm getting the fuck out of there once the accommodation officer finally gets his act together and finds me a new flat."

Yami merely sent him a small smile before turning and heading to his own building. Marik watched him leave with a sigh before heading back down the slippery pavement; it was raining, again, and Marik was starting to get really fed up of the grey sky and towering buildings. What he'd give to be back in Egypt right now, and not stuck in some crappy flat in a strange city, with a hostile flatmate who quite clearly wanted nothing to do with him. That stung. Not that Marik wanted to be around Bakura, because he hadn't been lying when he told Yami that he wanted out of that flat, but Marik couldn't deny that something about Bakura's presence was intoxicating. Then there was the fact that he was really fucking good at the piano; he practised often, usually late into the night, and Marik would more than likely catch himself lying in his bed with his eyes closed, allowing the delicious sounds to send waves of pleasure through his trembling body. He hadn't been exposed to much music as a child, and certainly nothing like what Bakura could play; Marik's knowledge of music was limited at best, but even he could tell that Bakura was above and beyond average. The only irritating thing was that Bakura knew it too.

Luckily, his pale flatmate was so far mostly unaware of Marik's fixation with his music; more often than not, Marik would fake annoyance with his late-night practises, asking him to shut up when he was trying to sleep. Of course, this only made Bakura more prone to practising later and later; something Marik secretly enjoyed. He would never let on about that, of course. He also found himself filled with curiousity about exactly how Bakura made it sound as good as it did; Marik now knew that his instrument was called a piano, but he still had absolutely no idea what it looked like, or how it would be played. He was afire with curiousity, but asking Bakura straight out was completely out of the question; he would only be ridiculed for his lack of knowledge.

Dragging his thoughts away from the pale idiot he lived with, Marik continued down the street with a disgruntled glare at the still-dripping sky. He was getting seriously fed up of all this water. Once he reached his block he legged it up the stairs to the sixth floor, shaking himself off in the process and trying to flatten his now-wild blonde hair; this was partly why he hated the rain. The flat was silent when he entered, the lights off everywhere but the hall; Bakura must be out somewhere. Marik was about to enter his own room when he noticed Bakura's was ajar, and the light still on – he could catch a glimpse of a bed much like his own, the sheets still ruffled, but there was something big and black stood beside it that was most certainly not in Marik's room.

Before he could think twice, Marik's hand was on the doorknob, pushing the door wide open as he stepped into Bakura's room. It was a lot more cluttered than Marik's; stuff was strewn all over the floor and the desk was piled high with sheets and sheets of music, mostly photocopied illegally by the looks of it. There was a box half-open on the desk, and as Marik stepped forwards a tell-tale glint slid out from under the lid, the sunlight through the open curtains glancing off something that looked suspiciously like precious metal. Marik's fingers itched, and with a quick glance around the room (although by now it was pretty obvious that Bakura was not in the flat), Marik crossed the room in two strides and lifted the lid fully, revealing the box's glowing contents. It was strewn with various, seemingly random, pieces of jewellery, wallets, a few loose coins, even a couple of watches, but what had first caught Marik's eye was the bracelet that was carelessly placed in the centre of the box. It was gold, decorated with emeralds, and it was clearly very expensive. Huh, Marik found himself thinking, his lips pursed. Either Bakura's been hiding some very rich parents, or he is just as criminal as he appears to be.

Turning away from the desk, Marik's attention was immediately caught and held by the beautiful instrument stood proudly against the wall beside the bed – this, he assumed, was the piano. It was black and upright, the keyboard open and a sheet of music placed open on the stand. It was covered in pencil markings in a tiny scrawl that Marik couldn't decipher at all, try as he might. Before he even realised he was moving, Marik was stood right beside the piano stool, the white and black keys shining temptingly. His fingers itched. Was that how you played it, then? You touched those keys?

Only one way to find out.

Stretching out one hand, fingers perfectly steady, Marik lightly brushed the top of one of those raised black keys. The material - what was that, anyway? It was too smooth to be wood - shifted under his touch, the key moving downwards slowly, but no sound was released; Marik was unable to hold back a frustrated growl at that. He tried again, pressing harder this time, and a note suddenly rang through the room, clear as daylight. Marik jerked his hand back in surprise. That easy? He reached his hand out again, aiming for a different key this time, fingers flexing...

"Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"

Shit.

Marik quickly jumped away from the piano, whipping around to meet a furious glare. Brown eyes were leering at him from behind curtains of white hair, pale arms folded and feet planted firmly on the floor; the whole stance exuded confidence. Bakura looked absolute irate. He took a single step forwards into the room, but it was enough to send Marik skittering backwards; sure, he had seen Bakura angry before, but this just took it to a whole new level. Bakura's eyes were narrowed to sharp brown points, his hands clearly clenched into fists, skin stretched taut over his bony knuckles. Marik swallowed.

Bakura took another step forwards, door closing mutely behind him, and Marik found himself trapped in a corner by the desk. The silence reigned between them, roaring in Marik's ears until Bakura finally saw fit to speak again. "I asked you a question, Ishtar. What the hell are you doing?"

"Um..." Marik's voice broke embarrassingly, and he accompanied his rather pathetic vocals with a glare. His throat felt constricted, but he forced the words out regardless. "I'm just looking..."

Within seconds Bakura was in Marik's face. Pale hands grasped the front of his shirt, forcing him backwards; Marik stumbled over one of the many items strewn across Bakura's floor, back hitting the wall painfully as he was bent backwards. Bakura was right in his face, white hair spilling onto tanned cheeks as he was fixed with that burning brown glare. "You," Bakura hissed, "Are never, ever, to come in here and touch my stuff. I don't care what kind of obsession you have, you are never to be in here."

"I don't -!" Marik started, but Bakura just bent him further back; Marik winced as his spine cracked, the noise sending shivers through his skull. No, not this, I don't want to remember... The back of his head connected with a wall, and Marik was suddenly somewhere else, his head screeching with the force of his memories.

A hazy glow from torches, shadows leaping around the brown stone walls; the corners of the tomb were dark, terrifying places for a child. Trembling knees, shaking hands, a deep, shaky breath that sounded far too loudly in the stale silent corridors. The darkness encroached further as the torches went out, one by one, accompanied by the sound of footsteps growing ever louder. The trembling increased, blonde hair falling into violet eyes, small tanned hands clutching at a white-robed chest, shivering and rocking and shaking for the punishment he knew was coming...

Bakura growled, the sound feral and deep and threatening. "Get out of my room. I ever catch you anywhere near being in here again, you'll find out what it really means to be in pain." Marik gasped as he was roughly flung away, landing on his backside in the middle of Bakura's room.

Another life, another place, another person, was all he found himself wishing for as his hands were tied down, his feet already pinned to the stone tablet. The torchlight still flickered in the otherwise impenetrable blackness, shadowed forms waving eerily on the walls as the tallest of them all edged forwards. White robes were roughly pulled away, revealing as-yet unblemished tan skin, and he writhed before it had even begun. He didn't want this. It wasn't right. He wanted to be out, not here, anywhere but here, anywhere...

Marik was still pinned with that ferocious brown stare as he came back to himself with a gasp. He found himself still flat on his back in the middle of Bakura's floor, so he wasted no time in clambering painfully to his feet and edging out of the room, making straight for the kitchen. He collapsed into one of the hard wooden chairs at the table, his eyes squeezing shut and his head dropping into his hands; his back ached, and not entirely because of Bakura. His skull still throbbed. He refused to acknowledge it, turning instead to the small pile of post on the table – most were addressed to Bakura, but there was one letter for him. With a slightly raised eyebrow, Marik slid his thumb under the opening and pulled out the letter.

To Mr Marik Ishtar,

Further to your enquiries, an appointment has been booked with Mr Jacob Wright, the Accommodation Officer, at 16:00 on the 30th September. Both yourself and Mr Touzoku are invited to attend.

Yours Sincerely

Student Living Ltd.

The 30th? That was today, wasn't it? Marik checked the date of the letter and saw it had been sent two days ago; quite possibly it had been sat on the table for the entire time, and he just hadn't noticed it. For the most part, Marik only came in here to get food, so it was probable that he just hadn't noticed the envelope. That, or Bakura could have hidden the letter out of some sadistic reason of his own invention. Marik wouldn't put it past him. Reading the letter again, Marik sighed loudly when he saw that Bakura was expected to attend this meeting as well. He really didn't want to deal with that hormonal pale idiot, but it was already 3:30 and the meeting was in half an hour. However, Marik remained sat at the table for the better part of the next ten minutes, still trying to keep a hold of his temper and put a stop to the random flashbacks that still raged through his skull. Once he felt marginally more in control, Marik rose fluidly and stepped back into the hallway, stopping outside Bakura's room. Everything was silent.

With a low growl, Marik knocked loudly on the door and called, "Don't worry, I'm not coming in, but I need you to come with me. We've got a meeting with the accommodation officer."

There was a short silence before a rough voice ground out, "Go your fucking self. I don't need to be there."

"Believe me," Marik replied, his voice even, "I would much rather do this on my own. But you were invited too, so let's just get a move on. We're going to be late."

There were another few seconds of silence before the door swung open and Bakura strode out, his arms crossed in front of him. He stared cockily at Marik before lifting an eyebrow. "Get a fucking move on then."

Marik merely sighed loudly, turning and leading the way out of the flat. Bakura locked it behind them before heading to the stairs, raising an eyebrow as Marik made for the lift. After staring at each other for a few moments, Marik rolled his eyes, crossing over to Bakura. "Fine. We'll take the stairs. Do you have an actual problem with lifts, or are you just being difficult?"

A dark chuckle escaped Bakura's lips as he started down the stairs, Marik easily keeping pace beside him. "Perhaps I just want to see if you can manage it, Ishtar."

"Please," Marik scoffed. "It's only six flights."

Bakura sent him a sidelong smirk. "That hole you grew up in have more than six flights, hm?"

"Shut. Up." Marik seethed, pushing away another flashback and steadfastly ignoring the chuckling bastard beside him. When they reached reception Marik headed straight for the desk, finding the same woman he had spoken to on the phone. "How do I get to the accommodation officer's room?"

The woman blinked up at him. "Excuse me?"

"The accommodation officer. I need to see him. Now."

"Do you have an appointment?"

Marik sighed loudly as the woman began tapping on the computer keys. "Yes. Just tell me where the hell his office is."

"Well, I just have to make sure he's expecting you..."

There was a growl, and then pale hands were on Marik's shoulders, pushing him out of the way; Marik made sure to send a glare to his pale companion before moving to the side. Bakura merely had to cough slightly, leaning his elbows on the desk, and the receptionist scrambled out of her seat and backed away. Bakura lifted a brow, jerking a thumb towards Marik. "I'm with him. Tell us where to go."

The receptionist shuddered. "O-of course, Mr Touzoku, it's just that way..." She pointed a trembling finger down the corridor. "First door on the right."

Bakura strode away without a second glance, but he stopped when he reached the door. "Ishtar, are you coming or what?"

Marik blinked, shaking himself before following after Bakura. "What did you ever do to her?"

"You probably don't want to know." Bakura sent Marik an amused smirk. "Your poor virgin mind couldn't take it."

"Spare me the bullcrap," Marik scoffed. "Let's just get this over with."

Bakura shrugged, gesturing for Marik to take the lead as they both entered the door the receptionist had pointed out to them.

The meeting with the accommodation officer went about as well as expected; there were no flats available anywhere in the city at the moment, and the best Marik could do was wait until the end of October, which was when a list of all the tenants came out. If there was an available flat then, and Marik still wanted to move out, then provisions could potentially be made.

"'Provisions could potentially be made.' What the fuck does that even mean?" Marik grumbled as he and Bakura entered their kitchen once more. "I mean, either they have a flat or they don't. There's no potentially about it."

"Don't ask me," Bakura chuckled, seating himself on the kitchen table and watching Marik head to his cupboards. "The situation is nothing to do with me."

Marik sent him a disbelieving look, his violet eyes narrowed. "Of course it's to do with you. The way things are now, I have to stick around here for another month. I do not want to live with you for that long."

"Well, there isn't an awful lot you can do about it," Bakura yawned, stretching back in his seat and placing his feet on the table. "Unless you want to try your hand at living on the streets, that is."

Marik scoffed. "As if. Maybe you should try that, though – that way you'll be out of my hair."

"Been there, done that."

"...Excuse me?" Marik put down his frying pan in favour of looking at Bakura, slightly shocked. "You've lived on the streets?"

Bakura sounded bored. "What of it?"

"I just..." Marik shook his head. "Why weren't you with your parents?"

"Why on earth does it matter to you?" Bakura looked faintly amused.

Marik hissed. "Bastard. I was just making conversation, seeing as I'm stuck with you. I still hate you."

"Oh, good," Bakura continued cheerfully. "I hate you too. We'll just have to put up with each other for a while longer."

Marik groaned at that, turning the hob on; the smells of his cooking soon filled the kitchen. "A whole month, in this dump. I'm not even sure I can cope."

"You should be grateful, actually." Bakura sounded amused. "You clearly don't know much about the way things work over here, but this is actually one of the nicest blocks they could put you in."

Marik glared over one shoulder. "Shame about the company, then."

"Now, now, Ishtar, do try and keep this civil," Bakura taunted, heading to the freezer and hunting through for another frozen ready meal. "You have yet to replace my pizza, I see."

Marik rolled his eyes, leaving his meal to simmer and turning his full attention to his pale flatmate. Bakura was hunting through the freezer, but Marik's eyes trailed to the floor beside him, where the soup from the first night should still be stuck to the cheap lino. Marik grinned when he saw that the floor was clean. "By the looks of things, your threats are meaningless, Bakura."

White hair flicked as Bakura sent him a dismissive glance. "Hm?"

"The soup's gone." Marik held back a snicker. "Seems like you don't expect me to follow your orders, so maybe I'll just keep taking your stuff. Doesn't seem to bother you."

A dangerous growl rippled through the air. "Don't try my patience, Ishtar."

"Whatever." Marik turned back to his own food, retrieving a plate from a cupboard. "As if I'd want to eat your food anyway. Can't you cook?"

"This is cooking," Bakura smirked, holding up a pizza. "I put it in the oven, and it heats up. Problem solved."

Marik's nose wrinkled in disgust. "You're not seriously eating that, are you?"

"Like your food's any better."

"It is!" Marik turned away with a shudder. "I nearly choked on the pizza I had the first night I was here."

Bakura rolled his eyes. "You make it sound like I forced it down your throat. I didn't want you to eat my food, idiot."

"At least if you ate my food, you'd be eating something healthy," Marik grouched, serving it up.

Bakura eyed the mess of vegetables with a raised brow. "Looks filthy to me."

"That's because you're clearly uncultured," Marik complained. "I assure you, it's delicious."

"I don't believe you."

"Try it yourself, then!" Before Marik fully realised what he was doing, he had shoved his plate towards Bakura and handed him a fork. "Trust me; it's much better than whatever crap you feed yourself with."

Bakura merely looked at it quizzically, his brows drawn tightly together, forehead creased. "What even is it?"

"Doesn't matter – just eat it."

To Marik's surprise, Bakura actually dug his fork in and took a bite. Marik watched with interest as his brows furrowed, before his eyes widened and he swallowed quickly. He pierced another mouthful onto his fork and chewed, a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips. Marik chuckled. "Told you. Much better than frozen crap, right?"

Bakura shot him a dirty look, swallowing again before responding. "I can't cook from scratch. I'm not left with many options."

"Just admit it; I was right about something."

Bakura smirked. "I have no problem with telling you that this is better than my food. So, I'll be going now." Before Marik could react, Bakura had lifted the plate and turned to leave, heading back to his room. "I think this earns you the job of flat cook, Marik."

"Asshole! That was mine!" Marik called after him, but Bakura had already entered his room. With an angry growl, Marik started the hob up again, running Bakura's parting words through his head. That bastard was beginning to confuse him; one minute he was threatening Marik, and the next he was complimenting him and calling him by his first name. Bakura had never done that before. Marik sighed as he tucked into his own food, trying not to dwell on exactly what this next month would bring; he had barely lived a week with Bakura, and it was already draining his emotions, never mind his back that still ached from their earlier encounter. And just how in the hell had Bakura guessed so accurately about Marik's past? He couldn't really be that observant...

Marik's thoughts trailed back to what he had seen in Bakura's room earlier that day, and he remembered the golden bracelet that had been lying in that trinket-box. That had certainly seemed not to belong to Bakura, although it was obviously worth quite a bit – Marik began to wonder just exactly where he could have got it from. With Bakura's casual mention of a life on the streets, it wouldn't honestly surprise Marik to hear that Bakura had stolen it. Marik made a mental note to keep his bedroom door locked at all times from now on; it would be just like that insufferable bastard to forbid Marik from entering his room, but have no qualms about entering Marik's room himself. This month was going to be horrid.

At least the course is going well, Marik found himself thinking as he put his plate in the sink and headed for his room. His notepad lay open on the desk, a few colours beside it from a picture he'd been working on earlier that week. His course, as Yami had told him, was Art History and not Art, so he didn't strictly have to draw for it, but Marik found the simple act of pressing paper to pencil rather refreshing. He took a seat and began to absentmindedly shade his sketches, watching the trail of black across the page and allowing his mind to wander. As a child, in Egypt, he often dreamed of living a life like this – outside, in the open air, and free to do as he pleased. Of course, he hadn't exactly imagined living in such a dreary country, or being forced to spend time with such a disagreeable person, but all in all life wasn't so bad. I should probably call Ishizu and Odion soon, Marik thought a little guiltily. I promised to keep in touch. They don't even know if I arrived safely, thinking about it. Marik sighed, continuing with his sketching in order to quieten his tired mind.

After a few moments, the silvery droplets of music began to dribble through the air from Bakura's room, and Marik tilted his head to listen, his pencil coming to a stop. Before long there was a smile at his lips, his head feeling truly calm for the first time that day.

Perhaps this month wouldn't be so bad, after all.

The pace picks up next chapter, so that's good. XD Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed. See you next Thursday! - Jem