Ok, so this chapter turned out much darker than I thought it would. That probably has something to do with me listening to Evanescence whilst I was writing it, heh, but I think it turned out alright. It's pretty long, so I hope that doesn't bother anyone. ^_^ I hope you enjoy, anyway, and thank you to everyone who has reviewed – I can't believe I'm almost at 30 already! XD - Jem

The music pounded in Marik's ears as the nightclub's lights flashed around him. Crowds pressed in on him from all directions, the swirling lights mixing with the haze of the alcohol and forming a potent mix of confusion, touch, movement and sound. Marik kept his distance from the rest of the group he had arrived with – Joey and Mai had quickly disappeared into one of the shadowy corners, too involved in each other to pay attention to what else was going on, and so Marik found himself shafted with Yami and Tea, the three of them seated at the bar. Tea was smiling brightly, her eyes very wide, whilst Yami shifted uneasily on his seat, staring at her for long periods of time before realising himself with a quick shake and turning back to his drink. Marik almost wanted to vomit at the unresolved tension between them.

Luckily, Tea was not completely oblivious. She smiled at Yami, tilting her head as she said, "So, what made you want to study History of Art?"

Yami blinked owlishly at her before replying, coughing a little. "Um, well, I've always enjoyed history, and art is interesting, and when I checked the course it ... just looked good. So ... um, what about you?"

"Oh, well, like you say, the course looks fascinating!" Tea gushed. "I mean, I just think all of our lectures so far have been absolutely brilliant. Don't you think, Marik?"

Marik started when his name was called; he had been idly spinning the ice cubes around in his drink whilst attempting to tune out the loud music. He frowned at her. "I'm sorry, what?"

"The lectures!" Tea grinned at him. "Did we catch you daydreaming?"

Marik glowered at her. "No. I just wasn't listening."

Tea laughed brightly, her teeth too-white in the overpowering glow from the lights. "Oh, sure. You were probably fantasising about that piano-playing flatmate of yours – he was dreamy."

"Shut it," Marik growled. The last thing he wanted was to think about Bakura – a large part of why he had come out was to get away from that insufferable idiot. Bakura's hard brown stare plagued him enough during the day. Marik noticed with a small slither of spite that Yami seemed uncomfortable at the mention of Bakura, as well; particularly from between Tea's lips.

Tea was still staring at Marik, her expression slightly cheeky. "No one would blame you for having a crush on him. He is seriously hot – I mean, even though I know he's gay and he isn't really my type anyway, he is very cute. Don't you think, Yami?"

"I think you've had too much to drink," Yami muttered, his features stilling.

Marik tilted his head, remembering dimly through the haze in his brain that he ought to be curious about why Yami hated Bakura so much. "What's with you and him, Yami?"

"You don't need to know," Yami mumbled.

Tea looked between them, interested. "What do you mean? Has something happened between Yami and Bakura?"

Yami's face closed further as he sagged in his seat. His eyes were stern when he turned them on Marik, an almost disappointed glint to their depths. "Bakura and I were at the same school, for a little while. I never knew him very well because he's a year older than me, but our brothers get along quite well."

Marik's jaw dropped. He couldn't have heard that right – Bakura had never mentioned any family, and Marik had got the distinct impression that he was a loner in life. Marik shook his head in disbelief as he stared at Yami. "Bakura has a brother?"

"I thought he would have told you." Yami's tone was dully monotonous. "Normal people like to talk about their family, right?"

Marik just stared in shock. If Bakura had a brother, why had he never mentioned him before? And for that matter, where even was he? Marik still believed that Bakura was an orphan, because he quite clearly had to steal for a living, but he had never shown any sign of supporting someone else. Unless this brother was older, of course, in which case Bakura was the one who should have been supported...

"You have a brother too, Yami?" Tea interrupted Marik's thoughts.

Yami nodded, brightening a little. "His name's Yugi."

"Aw!" Tea was beaming now. "That's a really sweet name. How old is he? Is he here?"

"He's still in school – just started sixth form. He's only 17..."

Marik tuned them out as they continued to talk, a frown creasing his brow as he thought over his new discovery. So Bakura had a brother who, by the sounds of things, was still in school, and he had never seen fit to mention this information to Marik. Marik felt a small coil of anger begin to burn in his stomach at that; after all, he had been completely open with Bakura, probably more than he should have been. Bakura knew everything about him and where he had come from, but he couldn't even manage to tell Marik that he had a younger brother? Marik growled under his breath, resolving to quiz him about this when he got home.

"What about you, Marik? Where are you from?"

Marik dragged himself out of his thoughts reluctantly, turning back to Tea with a raised brow. "What?"

Tea laughed. "Dreaming again? I was asking where you're from. Yami's from this city originally, and I'm from further north. I definitely think you've travelled the furthest to be here, right?"

Marik resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead striving to keep his tone as light as he could. "Yes, probably. I come from Egypt."

"Well, I know," Tea replied, frowning a little when Marik trailed off. "But where? What was it like?"

Marik stiffened immediately, his fingers curling almost violently around his half-empty glass. His back tingled. Turning towards the bar, Marik quickly downed the rest of his drink and beckoned for another, steadfastly ignoring Tea.

Silence held for a long, awkward moment before Yami saw fit to speak. "I've been trying to get him to tell me ever since the start of term, Tea, but he never volunteers anything."

"Well, that's a little rude." Marik could hear the pout in Tea's voice, but he didn't turn around. Her next words made him seethe, though. "I'm sure if Bakura was the one asking, he would talk..."

"Shut the fuck up about him," Marik growled, still not turning. His tanned knuckles were turning white as he grabbed the drink the barman passed to him, the glass scratching unpleasantly against his fingernails. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about, so just shut the fuck up."

There was a stunned silence from behind him, and Marik relished in the discomfort he had obviously caused. It was another few minutes before Tea finally spoke, her tone frosty. "Come on, Yami, let's go dance." The sound of two stools scraped across the cracked floor and Marik smiled jaggedly, inwardly congratulating himself. Now he could actually start to enjoy himself.

Taking another sip of his drink, Marik's thoughts wended their haphazard way back to Bakura. For some reason, the fact that Bakura had kept something from him bothered Marik more than he thought it would. At first he put it down to a lack of reciprocation – after all, Marik had been about as open as he possibly could with Bakura – but he was beginning to wonder if it didn't go a little deeper than that. Marik was forced to admit that Bakura fascinated Marik a bit; the pale student had such a confidence about him that it was almost alluring, with his wicked smirk and deep, dangerous eyes that could captivate Marik from halfway across a room. Marik realised slowly that he wanted to know more about Bakura. He wanted to know everything, and he would succeed.

Downing the rest of his drink in one burning gulp, Marik stood from the bar and made his way out of the club, pushing irritably passed the packed bodies. It was his first time drinking alcohol, but two small drinks really weren't enough for him to feel anything more than a slight buzz as he made his way through the dark city. It didn't take him long to get back to the flat, slightly out of breath from having to climb all the stairs, and his keys fumbled in the lock before he finally got the door open and stumbled into the flat. It was dark in the hallway but a light blared from the kitchen, accompanied by a low, rasping voice. Marik edged a little closer to the door so that he could listen in.

"I don't really care what you're doing ... well that isn't my problem, is it? You're not my responsibility anymore ... Don't start that crap again. Honestly, after all these years I would have thought you could come up with something better ... If you're just going to keep going on then I'm not talking to you anymore." There was a sharp snap, followed by a muttered curse.

Curiousity burning through his veins, Marik slowly reached out a hand and edged the door open a crack. Bakura was sat on the kitchen table with his legs folded on one of the chairs, a small phone in one hand; he was staring at the screen with a frown furrowing his brow. As Marik watched he punched in a new number, lifting the phone to his ear with a quick flick of his wrist.

"Yes, it's me. I need you to do something for me tonight ... Well, get unbusy." Bakura was drawling by now, a smirk pulling at his lips. "This is more important. I assure you it will be worth your time. Get to the theatre, someone there will show you the way." Bakura snapped the phone shut without waiting for a reply, sliding it into one pocket before calmly turning his dark gaze on Marik. "You can stop eavesdropping and actually get in here now, as well."

Marik jumped, then cursed. "How do you always manage to catch me off-guard?"

"Maybe it's because you're very easy to startle," Bakura grinned, "And you are really terrible at sneaking."

Marik glowered at him, stepping into the kitchen and leaning against the wall. His mouth felt dry; he swallowed before speaking. "Oh, I'm so sorry, master thief. I didn't realise I had to sneak to get into my own flat."

"My flat," Bakura corrected absentmindedly, jumping down from the table. "And you do if you want to eavesdrop without getting caught."

"I wasn't eavesdropping," Marik muttered, heading to the sink and pouring himself a glass of water. He downed it quickly, the cool liquid seething his aching throat, and set the empty glass back down on the side.

Bakura quirked an eyebrow, coming over to stand beside him. His expression was unreadable. "You're drunk."

"Am not," Marik retaliated. "I had two drinks."

Bakura rolled his eyes, sighing loudly. "And you've probably never drunk alcohol before, considering that you grew up in a tomb. Go to bed. You'll feel terrible in the morning."

"I'm not even drunk," Marik protested hotly. He fixed Bakura with a glare; his mind was, admittedly, a little hazy, but he was lucid enough to remember exactly what he wanted to quiz Bakura about. "Yami mentioned something interesting."

Bakura's features immediately sank, his brow furrowing.

Marik grinned, pressing his advantage as he took a shaky step closer. "Yami won't talk about why you hate him so much, either, but he did mention something that caught my attention. You failed to mention that you have a younger brother."

Bakura stared back impassively. His features were carefully constructed into an unreadable expression, but his eyes were darkened and heavy with emotion. Marik looked into them searchingly, taking another step forwards until they were almost touching. "So, it's true, is it? And you never saw fit to tell me?"

Silence. Then – "I can't see how it's any of your business, Ishtar."

"My life wasn't any of yours," Marik spat. "I still told you everything. And here I thought we were making progress."

Bakura continued to stare at him, his face closed. His tone betrayed nothing. "You're drunk. Go to bed."

"Asshole," Marik hissed, impulsively grabbing Bakura's shoulders and giving him a shake. "You insufferable asshole. You think you can just make judgements about me without giving anything in return? Fucking asshole."

"Are you quite finished?" Bakura brought his hands up, long fingers curving around Marik's wrists. They held together for a moment, trapped in their half-embrace, Marik's eyes fixed on Bakura's as he tried to understand what was hidden in their brown depths. Bakura was an enigma, but Marik was determined to work him out. Bakura's grip tightened around Marik's wrists, and he slowly pulled his hands down from his shoulders, his features unmoving. Marik allowed it, taking a reluctant step back at Bakura's insistence. Bakura released his wrists, gaze still never leaving Marik's as he spoke. "You should go to your room."

"You are not my parent," Marik spat, but his head was reeling a little. It had to be into the early hours of the morning, and he had only managed a few hours of sleep the night before...

Bakura stepped back, folding his arms across his chest. "Just go to bed, Marik."

Marik glowered at him, but his sheets were beckoning. With a hiss, Marik ground out, "I am not going because you told me to. I am going because I am tired."

As Marik turned on his heel, edging his way back out of the kitchen door and into his room, he heard a low chuckle behind him, accompanied by a, "Whatever you say, Marik."

Marik couldn't keep a small smile from gracing his own lips as he undressed and slid between his sheets.

...

A loud thud followed by a muffled shout from the other side of the wall woke Marik the next morning. Although his mind jogged towards wakefulness, Marik's body ignored it as much as he could, his lids remaining firmly shut as he curled into his covers. It wasn't until the thump sounded again, louder, and a disgusted shout of, "Turn that fucking alarm off, Ishtar!" echoed around the flat that Marik reluctantly dragged himself awake, one hand slamming out to shut up his clock. He rubbed an eye blearily, keeping the covers tight around him as he sat up. It was quarter to nine – fuck, he had fifteen minutes to be up, dressed, and in his first lecture. "Fuck it," Marik growled, hauling himself out of bed and down the hall into the shower.

He was ten minutes late to his lecture, sliding into a seat at the back of the hall as soon as he entered. There were quite a few empty seats dotted around – evidently, lots of people had been out having fun the night before – but Marik could easily spot the spiky head of Yami a few rows in front of him, sitting with his head close beside a brunette Marik could only assume was Tea. Marik wrinkled his nose, wondering if he could manage to slip out at the end of the lecture without them noticing.

No such luck, of course.

Straight after the lecturer turned off the projector, the brown head swung around eagerly and Tea's face broke into a smile when she spotted Marik. She bounced up, tugging Yami with her and hopping into the aisle, making their way towards him. Marik heaved a sigh, packing his things away; in all honesty, he was surprised she still wanted to talk to him after he had walked out on them the night before.

"Hey, Marik! How are you feeling?" She called as soon as she was within earshot, oblivious to the other people around her.

Marik forced a smile onto his face. "I'm fine."

"Oh, really? We were worried about you, after you ran out like you did," she commented calmly. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"It's fine," Marik responded stiffly, casting his eyes around for some form of escape. People were still queuing to exit the lecture hall, the crowds thick in the narrow aisles, so Marik was trapped in his seat.

Yami nodded to him, a small frown creasing his brow. "Why does it bother you when people ask about your past? Most students like to talk about where they've come from..."

"Not me." Marik ground out, his fingers digging into his palms. "Drop it."

A look of concern flitted across Tea's face. "You know, if something's really bothering you it usually helps to talk about it – keeping things bottled up isn't good for..."

"Shut up!" Marik yelled the words before he'd realised what he had done. He was shaking, his back prickling and his head still pounding from two nights of little sleep. He spoke without thinking, the words tumbling out of his mouth. "Why can nobody in this whole fucking country just accept the fact that I don't want to talk about it? I don't even want to think about it! So just leave me the fuck alone, and stay out of my way. Got it?"

A shocked hush filled the lecture theatre. Tea stumbled back a step, her eyes wide with shock, Yami close by her side. He fixed Marik with a stern look, disapproval clear in his gaze as his hand found Tea's. Marik wrenched his head away from them, his temper not improved by the surprised, judgmental stares from the other people around them. He could feel it again – the anger surging through his veins, tearing at his soul, echoed in the remembered flares of a hot knife at his back. His eyes slid closed and images assaulted him, memories he had fought so hard to bury fighting their way back to the surface.

His father turned to him, familiar wrinkles tightened into an expression of pure, burning hatred, so much so that Marik flinched, almost falling back a step. His father noticed and advanced, a gleam entering his dark eyes, and Marik's throat constricted. His father would never let him leave this tomb. He would be stuck down here forever, until he was just a pile of bones rotting away in a corner...

No more.

Marik lunged forwards, surprising both of them. His father crashed into the opposite wall, his expression one of almost comical surprise, and then the blade was in Marik's hand, the handle a comforting presence in his palm. His fingers tightened around it as he lifted the blade high, his father's eyes widening in something very close to panic, and Marik wanted to laugh...

Wrenching himself back to the present with a gasp, Marik forced his eyes open. Tea was still staring at him but her eyes were tinged with concern now, her mouth slightly open. She stretched a hand out to brush his shoulder; Marik jerked violently away, his skin crawling from the touch.

"Marik?" She swallowed. "Are – are you alright?"

He didn't reply for a moment, still struggling to control his breathing. Yami spoke next, his forehead creased with worry. "Marik? What's wrong?"

"Just ... just leave me alone," Marik forced out. His tongue felt heavy. He needed to get out of there – he needed to get away, to be free; he couldn't deal with being packed in amongst the crowd like this when visions of the tomb flickered restlessly in his mind's eye. "I have to go..."

Tea stared at him. "I think we should come with you, you don't look well, I don't think you should be on your own..."

"Just leave me the fuck alone!" Marik twisted away from her, his vision blurring as he forced his way out into the aisle, ignoring the complaints and protests of the people he pushed past. "Besides, I won't be on my own. Bakura will be at the flat," Marik muttered to himself as he barrelled his way through the crowds, striding quickly out of the hall, through the foyer and out onto the street. The air was sharp and freezing, almost bruising his burning, sweaty skin. Marik ignored everyone, concentrating on the short sharp breaths he dragged through his chest and the fast slaps of his footfalls against the damp, concrete pavement. The back of his skull pulsed with half-imagined memories, the image of his father against the wall the clearest. Marik looked down, half expecting to see the handle of a blade resting in his palm, blood from then mixing with rain from now. Marik blinked furiously, tilting his head back to stare at the sky. Moisture fell down his cheeks.

His building came into view. Marik didn't let himself fall apart just yet – he continued through the reception and into his block, taking the stairs three at a time in his hurry to get into his flat before he let loose the explosion that he knew was waiting to happen. He was coiled tightly inwards, his fists clenched painfully, muscles in his arms cramping and fire running across the old wounds in his back. He flung the flat door open and marched straight into the kitchen, something akin to disappointment flaring in his gut as he realised it was empty; the one time Marik could have done with his company, and Bakura was nowhere to be found. "Fine," Marik growled to himself, stalking around the kitchen as he tried to take deep, calming breaths. "Fucking fine. I can deal with this myself, like I've dealt with everything my whole fucking life, and I'll be damned if I start relying on someone else now."

Something sharp seared down Marik's back and he nearly roared, throwing himself into a wall and pressing his forehead against the cool brick. He drew in sharp, careful breaths, his eyes shutting of their own accord and filling with images he had hoped would be buried by now.

A scream alerted Marik to his sister's presence first. Ishizu flew past him, her hands diving to their father's side. Marik roared at her to get out of the way, the knife slicked with dark red as he raised it high once more but she turned to him and lunged, knocking him backwards. The knife rolled harmlessly away and Marik came back to himself, his breath sounding in loud gasps as he stared into his sister's panicked blue eyes. She was pressed above him, her face inches from his. They stared at each other in the dripping red, and Ishizu whispered words in a hopeless tone, far removed from anything Marik had heard pass her lips before.

"What have you done?"

Marik ripped away from the wall with a feral snarl tearing through his lips. He struck out around him, hands coming into contact with the first thing he found and throwing it across the room; a kitchen chair smashed into the counter by the sink, a long crack running up the wood as it crashed haphazardly back down to the ground. Marik barely spared it a glance as he smashed into a cupboard, his fist connecting with old plastic and resulting in a nasty crack. Pain shot through his wrist but Marik barely noticed, kicking at the counter with a roar before turning away and crashing into a seat, his trembling hands smashing into the tabletop and his head dropping onto his arms. He shook.

The darkness behind his lids did nothing to help him, deadened images of the tomb ripping through his skull at an alarming rate; he couldn't keep up, couldn't make sense of them. Random memories flashed through him, his sister's anger, his brother's panic, his father's blood, the flickering torchlight, and washing his own tanned hands to try and be free of his guilt...

Someone else was in the room.

Marik's head shot up, his unkempt hair falling back from his forehead to reveal sparkling violet eyes, filled to the brim with trembling emotion. He was hardly surprised to meet a deep brown gaze set in a pale face, but Marik was more than a little ashamed of the sense of relief that flooded his veins. He buried his head back in his hands again, squeezing his eyes shut.

Two fingers gripped his chin, forcing his head back up, and Marik's eyes opened to meet Bakura. The pale student was seated opposite him, at perfect eye level; Marik tried to twist out of his grip but Bakura held him fast, his eyes stern as they burned into Marik. "What the hell happened to you?"

Marik growled, anger flooding him again. He was still shaking, his fingers trembling against the tabletop as he tried to curl them into fists. "Why the fuck do you care?"

"Don't swear at me, Marik," Bakura ordered, "And tell me what's going on."

"Fuck off." Marik wrenched his head free and forced himself to his feet. His head was pounding, the world spinning crazily around him until he felt fingers grip his arm, whirling him back around to face Bakura. It took all of Marik's effort just to stand still and not throw Bakura across the room.

The pale student was still staring at him with that intense brown gaze, his eyes narrowed, lines crinkling around his skin. "Talk to me, Marik. What's wrong with you?"

"My fucking past is what's wrong with me," Marik hissed, his wrist aching from where he's punched the cupboard. "My past, and people who won't leave me alone. They can't take the hint that I don't want to talk about it, and they just keep pushing and pushing until..."

Torchlight danced across Marik's vision as he pushed Ishizu off him, struggling to his feet. She dived onto his chest again, her hands fisting in the front of his white robes. "No, Marik, don't – we have to go..."

"I need to see," he panted, his eyes glazed. "I need to see."

She swallowed, shaking her head. "I can't let you."

"Please, Ishizu," Marik whispered. His hand came up to her face, brushing back long locks of deep black hair, leaving sticky trails of red in the dark strands. Her blue eyes had dimmed as she stared at him, her cheeks tracked with tears, her breath sharp and loud in the echoing tunnels. She swallowed, allowing his hands to push at her shoulders, lifting her carefully away from his prone form.

Ishizu fell back onto the tiled stone floor and Marik clambered carefully to his feet. His eyes travelled around the scene slowly, nostrils flaring from the rusty tang of the blood that coated his hands and robes. The usual white was encrusted with black, turning red under the torchlight. Ishizu gazed up at him with sharp blue eyes, her hands clenched at her sides. "Brother, please..."

"Hush, Ishizu," Marik murmured, his gaze sliding away from her and falling on the knife that had clattered down beside her. He bent with an odd curiousity, scooping it into his palm and ignoring her shuddering gasp. It lay perfectly within the confines of his right hand. Too perfectly.

Marik continued turning his head, taking in the spattered walls. He almost completely missed the crumpled form lying against the opposite wall, wrapped in a spattered grey cloak. The same dark black that encrusted Marik's robe flowed across the ashen face, dripping steadily from the points of his nose and beard, dribbling softly onto the messy, cut neck. The form was almost unrecognisable, but still Marik knew him.

The knife clattered to the floor as Marik's fingers went slack, a scream ripping through the tunnels.

"No, it wasn't, it can't have been...!"

"Marik, please, calm down..."

"I never meant to! I didn't do it! Ishizu, listen, it wasn't me! You've got to help me ... I didn't want this..."

"Marik, stop..."

"I didn't do it, he was going to kill me! He had the knife, he was never going to let me leave..."

"Marik, I understand. I know you had to do it. You did the right thing."

Marik froze at those words, dragging himself out of the dark and the pain, slowly coming to the realisation that the tomb was far behind him. His eyes were somehow closed, his fingers desperately clutching at something pressed into his face, warmth wrapped tight around his torso. Marik's breathing was sharp and panicked, his head pounding and heavy, throbbing with memories, his heart forcing blood through his veins much too quickly. Underlying his body's own reactions was another presence; something with calm, slow movements. Marik quickly moulded himself to that form, quietening his own breathing as he focused on the other, feeling his heart slow, his head drift, his muscles cautiously relax. His fingers slackened their grip, although he kept himself pressed close to the other as he slowly risked opening his eyes.

White filled his vision. Blinking and shifting slightly, Marik stiffened as he came to fully realise his situation. His head was buried in a black-coated chest, white strands of hair tickling his nose. His fingers were clutching the lapels of a long black coat, and arms were wrapped tightly around Marik's torso, keeping him pressed tightly against the other's thin form and filling him with warmth. Marik drew in another shuddering breath and the arms tightened momentarily around his back; Marik couldn't bring himself to pull away, although he knew that he needed to.

Bakura's next movements shocked Marik to the very core.

Fluidly, without hesitation, long pale fingers slid under Marik's shirt and up his back, brushing the scars. Electrifying tingles sizzled to the very tips of Marik's fingers as he stiffened, keeping his head pressed firmly into Bakura's chest, body racked with shivers the further the pale student went.

Bakura spoke. "You did the right thing, Marik, because no parent does this to a child. You had to get out of there and this was the only way. And if you hadn't killed him already, I would be on my way to Egypt right now to murder your fucking father."

Marik was frozen in shock as Bakura's fingers brushed his bare skin, sending burning tingles shooting through his nerves. His head was impossibly close to Marik's, their chests moving together, cool breath disturbing Marik's already-ruffled hair. Marik shivered as Bakura reached the base of his back, tracing the last scar before slowly withdrawing, pulling Marik's shirt back down over his form. Marik shifted his grip to Bakura's shoulders, pushing himself away, almost fearful of meeting Bakura's gaze. He wasn't given a choice, however, when pale fingers tilted his chin and their eyes crashed onto each other.

Silence rang through the kitchen as Marik was captivated by those brown eyes; they anchored him in the present, the last remaining strands of memories flowing back into the past. Marik blinked and moved, edging back a step and blinking as he looked away. A muttered,"Thanks," dropped from Marik's lips before he realised he'd spoken.

A chuckle slipped from Bakura, returning a sense of normality between them. "Don't mention it. And next time you're going to have a breakdown, do it in your own room. You've destroyed my kitchen."

Marik blinked, glancing around the kitchen almost sheepishly. "It was just one chair..."

"And the cupboard." Bakura examined it with a frown. "What did you do, run into it?"

"Punched it." Marik winced as he lifted his right hand, examining the bleeding knuckles.

Bakura rolled his eyes when he saw it. "God, you can't even freak out without hurting yourself."

"Shut up." Marik collapsed back onto a seat, quirking a brow when Bakura went to a cabinet and dug around for a moment, returning with a roll of bandages. He sat opposite Marik and beckoned. Marik scoffed. "I can do it myself."

Bakura smirked. "Sure, if you want a lopsided bandage that you'll have to change every couple of hours. Just give me your damn hand – I know what I'm doing."

Marik grudgingly extended his arm, a frown creasing his forehead. "If you wreck my fist, I will poison your meals for the next month."

"You wouldn't dare," Bakura scoffed. "And I know what I'm doing."

Marik winced when Bakura wiped his hand with antiseptic, but he held back his protests at Bakura's disparaging look. The bandage attached itself to his wounds easily enough, Bakura tying it off and casually pulling it tight. Marik hissed. "Gods, do you have to be so harsh?"

"I just did you a favour – quit complaining." Bakura shook his head, depositing the medical pack back in the cupboard and sitting back down. "Are you going to tell me why you went mad?"

Marik's eyes slid shut, fearful of the memories returning, but his anger was back under control again now. "Tea and Yami poking their noses in where they're not concerned. Gods, they irritate me sometimes."

"I'm sure." Bakura's tone was carefully neutral, causing Marik to tilt his head up with a quizzical frown. Bakura's deep brown gaze was hidden, his brow creased a little, pale hands folded under his chin. He caught Marik's questioning look and snorted. "No, I'm not going to tell you why I hate Yami. What's he done to you? I thought you were best friends."

"I never said that," Marik argued indignantly. "I just said that I don't see why you hate him as much as you do. And it wasn't really him – it was Tea, she just will not shut up about trying to find out where I come from."

An amused smirk twisted Bakura's lips. "Who is this Tea?"

"Ugh, just a girl," Marik groaned, dropping his head into his hands. "Yami's, like, obsessed with her, but neither of them is grown up to do anything about it. It's really childish."

"Obsessed, you say?" Bakura's tone turned mildly interested, darkness lacing through his words. "Well, that could be fun."

Marik lifted his head again, tilting his head to the side as he caught Bakura's wicked grin. He couldn't hold back a smirk of his own. "Are you plotting something?"

"I think I might be, Ishtar." Bakura smirked right back at him, sharp teeth glistening for a moment before he drew his mouth back into a thin line. "You can help me out. I'm assuming you want to get back at them for making you flip, right?"

Marik's eyes hardened, the lines tightening in his face as he let out a low growl. His newly-bandaged fist clenched into the table. "They need to know not to do it again."

Bakura released a sigh, standing from the table and beckoning. "Come on. Come with me."

"What?" Marik looked up at him, tone still a little forced. The anger was back, flaring in his gut. "Why?"

"I'm going to practise. You can listen. It calms you down." Bakura turned to stalk out of the kitchen, holding the door open impatiently. "Come on. Or have you stopped your ridiculous fascination with music?"

"Says the music student," Marik muttered under his breath, although he clambered to his feet readily enough, following Bakura into his room. Marik's fingers itched as soon as they were seated at the piano, but Bakura shot him a dark look.

"You are not touching it today," he instructed firmly. "It's mine, and I actually need to practise. You can watch for as long as you like, but if you disturb me you are fucking dead, got it?"

Marik rolled his eyes, too used to the threats by now to truly be bothered by them. "Sure, whatever. Just get on with it."

Bakura smirked slightly as he turned back to the keys. Marik's eyes closed as soon as the music started, all thoughts of the tomb long forgotten as he slipped down on the stool, the notes sending a multitude of colours washing over the back of his closed lids. Patterns eluded him as he listened, his muscles relaxing further. He was very tired from the last two nights. Marik's head slowly ceased its pounding the longer Bakura played, his fingers picking out a gentle tune that Marik never would have associated with the apparently fearsome student, had he not known that it was Bakura playing. The melody soothed Marik, sending him deep into darkness. He leaned sideways, his head coming into contact with Bakura's shoulder before he knew what was happening.

Both students stiffened for a moment, Bakura's fingers pausing momentarily before he started playing again. Marik's eyes slid open, watching as pale hands drifted across ivory keys, his head cushioned comfortably against Bakura's shoulder. A low chuckle reached his ears. "Remember what I said about not disturbing me?"

"You're still playing," Marik pointed out sleepily, holding back a yawn. He settled further against Bakura, unwittingly brushing his hair against Bakura's neck and sending a shiver down the pale student's spine. Bakura continued to play, the warmth against his side unerringly pleasant. Marik shifted, his eyes sliding closed again, his head turning further into Bakura as the music carried on. Bakura faltered a little, twisting his head to glance down at him just as Marik's eyes opened once more.

Their gazes brushed, deep brown on sleepy violet. Marik's breath caught in his throat; Bakura's jaw was clenched, his head tilting down to meet Marik's, his breath mingling in the air between them. Marik lifted his face up without being fully aware of what he was doing – all he knew was, in that moment, being so close to Bakura felt nice. Marik had felt so little of 'nice' in his life that he continued against his better judgement.

The music faltered, failed, then stopped altogether as Marik's lips met Bakura's.

Their touch was slow, lips moving together as Marik lifted his hands to catch onto Bakura's jacket, preventing himself from falling. Bakura was surprisingly willing, his mouth warm on Marik's, one hand dropping from the piano to snake around Marik's hip. Marik shuddered at the unfamiliar touch, his mind screaming at him to stop because surely Bakura would flip at any second, and Marik should really be out of his range when that happened...

Bakura turned his head, pulling away sharply, his eyes narrowed and unreadable. Marik scooted as far away as he could without falling off the piano stool, his mouth slightly open. He swallowed.

Bakura just stared at him.

Marik shot upright, his mind still struggling to catch up. He took a couple of breaths, opening and closing his mouth before finally speaking. "I ... should go to bed. I'm really tired."

Bakura continued to stare at him.

"I haven't slept properly in two nights, and I don't ... I..." Marik swallowed, trailing off. Bakura said nothing.

Marik ran.

He left Bakura's room at lightning speed, diving into his own room and slamming the door shut behind him. His mind was still reeling – what the hell had he done that for? Bakura was going to absolutely murder him. With that thought in mind, Marik quickly whirled around and flipped the lock on his door, peering through the peephole half-expecting to meet a ferocious brown glare. Marik shuddered just at the thought.

The flat was deathly silent as Marik hurriedly undressed, crawling onto his bed and curling into a ball. He clutched his head in his hands, fingers knotting in the tattered strands of his hair. Today had been all-out weird, right from beginning to end. The flashbacks from earlier were still buzzing away in the back of his skull but Marik pushed them away, not wanting to get lost in the tomb again. Bakura had done a good job of calming him down earlier, but then Marik had to go and ruin it by ... by...

Marik's thoughts stopped when the quiet murmur of the piano sounded again from the next room. He didn't want to think anymore, didn't want to have to sort through the tangled web of emotion and hurt and pain and touch that had been so successfully woven around Bakura and himself. He curled up into a ball, blocking out the images and allowing the soothing notes of Bakura's calming melody to send him off to sleep.

That's it for now! ^_^ I hope you liked that chapter. Thanks for reading, see you on Tuesday! - Jem