So, yeah, updating once a week isn't going to happen, but I am going to finish this story! I've had another look and I estimate this story will end somewhere around chapter 27/28. So not too much longer to go! Thank you to X . Vivace, if you hadn't updated your story this chapter would have taken much longer than it already has. Anyway, enjoy this new chapter, and thank you all for being patient with me – Jem
Kek stomped around Marik and Bakura's kitchen with a frown marring his expression. He scoured the cupboards, slamming doors open and shut and growling at their empty contents. He stormed around the kitchen with heavy, stomping footsteps, blackening the air around him with curses. "This is not fucking funny!"
Kek turned from the last cupboard with a snarl, glaring around the kitchen that held no morsel of food for him. He would have thought that Marik would have at least something in, but apparently that was too much to expect from his pathetic younger cousin.
With a low growl, Kek flung himself into a seat at the kitchen table and allowed his head to drop into his hands. His muscles were burning from rushing half way across the city, his wild hair even wilder due to the wind and rain. He snorted once. "If it wasn't for that damned idiot Bakura, I wouldn't even be here in the first place."
Needless to say, Kek was a bit pissed.
With a low growl, he resolved to remain in this kitchen for as long as it took his young cousin to drag his sorry excuse for a boyfriend back in here. Kek needed to have a long talk with Bakura, revolving around exactly why he had thought it would be a good idea to leave Kek in the lurch, instead of helping him watch the house for Kaiba, like they were supposed to. If Bakura had been there, as he was supposed to, then he would have stopped Kek from getting spotted by one of the owners of the mansion and the police would never have been called. Then, there would have been no need for that ridiculous race across town. Kek could feel his brows furrowing as his lips spread deliciously wide; oh, he would enjoy getting to deal with Bakura, when he finally got back here.
There was a small sound by the kitchen door.
Kek's head shot up from his hands, dark purple gaze searing across the kitchen. A muffled squeak met his ears, followed by a fast patter of footsteps that quickly disappeared somewhere down the corridor. Kek frowned. That hadn't sounded like Marik and Bakura returning, but as far as he knew, there was no one else in this flat. So did they have an intruder?
Standing with quick, loud movements, Kek rushed straight to the door and flung it open, his strong gaze searing through the darkness of the corridor. There was another small squeak, more pattering footsteps, and then a door closed. The sound rang clear as glass through the air.
There was definitely someone else in the flat.
Wasting no time now, Kek stormed down the corridor, feeling his way along until he came to a door. He flung it open but it was dark and silent, the bed stripped and obviously unoccupied. Nevertheless, he went in and searched the whole place, roughly throwing open wardrobe doors and peering under the desk, all to no avail.
Until there was another sound, this time from somewhere behind him.
With a roar, Kek turned, his hair coursing wildly around his head as he snarled into the darkness. "Whoever the fuck is in here, you better get into my sight right now before I tear your head off."
There was another small sound from the corridor, and this time it sounded like a laugh.
Kek growled.
"It's only me." A light, calm voice sounded through the air, followed by a familiar puff of white hair. Pale skin glimmered dimly in the light.
Kek arched a brow, though he calmed considerably; the form opposite him was small enough not to pose a threat. He spoke lowly, his voice a threatening hum. "And who would you be?"
"We've met before." The voice took on a worried tone. A light flipped on, pouring the corridor with harsh light and highlighting the slim pale form watching Kek.
Kek's brows furrowed, his memory winding back into action. "Oh! Bakura's little brother."
"Ryou." His brown eyes dimmed a little, his mouth twisting.
Kek waved a disinterested hand, grunting. "I forgot about you."
"Everyone seems to do that." Ryou sighed, turning and beckoning once to Kek. "Come on. You're not supposed to go in that room – it's the spare one."
"You mean the one my cousin and your brother wouldn't let me stay in," Kek growled. Nevertheless, he followed Ryou out into the corridor and back into the kitchen, sitting back at the table with a low sigh.
Ryou's face showed a faint expression of surprise, although he still avoided looking Kek straight in the eyes. His voice was small. "You wanted to stay here?"
"Before you showed up." Kek sat back with a low sigh. "I needed a place to crash, but your brother wasn't having it."
"Marik didn't back you up?" Ryou's face was hidden behind a curtain of white hair. His brown eyes were peeking through the strands, quietly examining Kek's brazen form as he sat draped at the table.
Kek growled, speaking almost to himself. "No, he didn't. Seemed to think Bakura's opinion was more important than protecting his own family."
"I..." Ryou's voice trailed into silence. He swallowed – a loud sound in the distinct silence that thickened the air between them – and turned his face downwards, twisting away from Kek. "I didn't know..."
"Well, I hardly expected you to," Kek scoffed. He sat back in his seat and twisted away from Ryou, missing the dulling of Ryou's brown eyes, the slight set of his shoulders that hinted that all was not well.
Ryou swallowed, turning back to face Kek. He lifted his head, for the first time allowing his hair to part, revealing his face. His eyes were wide. Kek glanced over and was surprised at the intense brown gaze searing into him, the drawn pale skin and straggly white hair that fell back over Ryou's shoulders. A small puff of air whooshed out of Ryou's parted lips. "I..."
Kek leaned forwards, intrigued despite himself. His head tilted slightly. "Yes?"
Ryou stared for another long moment, holding Kek's gaze despite himself. His legs were trembling, his voice shaking slightly whenever he managed to speak. "It's just ... I..."
"What?" Kek's tone turned impatient; demanding, even. He narrowed his eyes at Ryou. "What are you trying to say?"
"I..." Ryou trembled for another instant before his mouth snapped shut. Without another word, he turned abruptly and exited the kitchen, his footsteps pattering back down the hall. The sound of a door slamming entered Kek's bemused ears, leaving him once more alone with the darkness.
...
Marik ran out of the flat as fast as he could, wind whipping through his hair at an almost alarming rate. His feet rang out against the pavement, rain pouring down around him in a fine, thin mist of drizzle that soaked him straight to the bone. He wrapped his arms around himself, cursing himself for getting to get his coat. He still half-expected to see the bright sun of Egypt lancing through the clear blue sky whenever he stepped outside.
Blinking away the strands of dripping hair that fell into his eyes, Marik continued down the streets, searching left and right with a desperate violet gaze. All he knew was what Bakura had told him – he was going to a concert. Except according to Kek, that was a lie. Marik cursed his gullibility as he continued to race through the streets, ignoring the bands of people he barrelled through in his haste. It had never occurred to him that Bakura was still hiding things. Bakura was private to a fault.
Sucking in a harsh breath, Marik raced through the streets of Domino for the better part of an hour, but he caught no glimpse of familiar white hair. Most people were sheltering from the rain by now, which was decidedly getting heavier with certain flashes threatening a storm overhead, but Marik couldn't abandon his search yet. Not until he knew Bakura was safe.
"Where would that idiot have gone?" Marik muttered to himself. He paused in a doorway to wring out his sodden jumper, wincing at the water that trickled up the sleeves, leaving cold tracks against the frozen skin of his arms. Goosebumps fled up his flesh. It was eerily quiet in the city – the sort of quiet that always seemed a precursor to a bad storm – and lightning flashed ominously in the sky above Marik's head. He winced. No matter how much he needed to find Bakura, he wouldn't be able to stay outside much longer.
Where would Bakura go to shelter?
Marik's violet eyes lit up with sudden inspiration, a bright grin fighting its way across his face. Without a backwards glance he took off, racing back through the rain and moving in the direction of the theatre. It was where Bakura had taken Marik just before they went to rob the mansion; it stood to reason that Bakura would shelter there after another thieving exhibition, didn't it?
Racing on quick steps through the darkened back alleys that Marik vaguely remembered, he took a couple of wrong turns before finally finding the small dark gap that led to the theatre. He crawled through the narrow corridor it concealed, grimacing at the darkness and cobwebs that pressed against his face, before he finally emerged out into the old theatre again. It was dimly lit, cold air muffled by the thick layers of dust and carpet. The stage glimmered out as a huge black shadow, crouched in the front of the room.
Moving carefully, Marik edged to the steps and began to descend them, checking along every row of seats. At first glance the theatre was deserted, not a soul moving in the dark, silent shadows, but still Marik moved down the rows of seats until he was right beside the stage. It loomed over him. Scouring the shadows carefully, disappointment flared in Marik's gut when there was no movement and no sign of life. Evidently, he had guessed wrong about where Bakura would seek shelter.
With a low sigh, Marik turned to leave the theatre, giving his ancient surroundings one last glance. Everything was still, every surface coated in a thick layer of dust. It danced in the dim lighting, throwing huge shadows across the walls and sending light flickering in the corner of Marik's vision. He watched, mesmerised, before a low sigh escaped his lips. He took a step forwards, moving back towards the stairs and the exit to the theatre.
A low chuckle sounded somewhere to his right. "What, just going to leave me here, Ishtar?"
Marik's eyes flew wide open. He stopped short, spinning around and searching through the darkness. Squinting, he could just about make out a dark form slumped against the stage front, still and unmoving, blending in perfectly with the shadows and dust.
"Bakura?" Marik's tone was uncertain as he took a few steps closer.
A low chuckle turned into a wheeze. "Who else?"
Marik rushed through the shadows, collapsing on the ground beside him. He felt around in the darkness, squinting, until he could finally make out long strands of white hair sticking to a ghostly pale forehead, and deep brown eyes that burned straight into him. Bakura managed a tired smirk.
"What happened?" Marik crouched in front of Bakura, carefully tracing his features in the darkness.
Bakura said nothing. He shifted a little against the stage, his hands wrapped carefully around his torso. A small groan of pain escaped his lips.
Marik frowned, leaning closer. "Let me see." Carefully, he wrapped his hands around Bakura's arms, lowering them gently. Red glistened out between the lapels of Bakura's black coat, the dark undershirt he wore ripped in several places and sticking to his pale, sallow skin. Marik's eyes went wide. "The hell did you do?"
"It wasn't exactly planned." Another low chuckle escaped Bakura's lips. His head rested back against the stage, eyes closed as his chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths.
Marik chewed his lip. "We have to get you home." Gently, Marik managed to get an arm around Bakura's shoulders and lifted him, although the pale student groaned loudly when he was hauled upright. Marik kept an arm tight around his waist, letting Bakura lean heavily against him. Blood dripped down onto the floor at Bakura's feet.
"There's a gash on my left leg, too," Bakura grunted, voice tight.
Marik stopped. He held back his worry, instead shifting Bakura against him so that he could better support his weight. He spoke quietly. "Can you walk on it?"
"I hopped here," Bakura scoffed, and Marik could not for the life of him tell if there was sarcasm in his tone or not.
"Right, we can't move you yet, then." Marik glanced around, pursing his lips, and decided to make for one of the dusty old seats in the front row. Carefully, he manoeuvred Bakura around until he managed to get him into the old red seat. The cushions were moth-eaten and surrounded by dust, coating Bakura's thick black coat. A cloud of small grey particles rose up around the two of them, making Marik cough as he collapsed into the seat beside Bakura. Demandingly, he reached his hands towards Bakura's chest. "Let me see."
Bakura rolled his eyes but obediently lowered his arms, allowing Marik to get to his coat. He couldn't hold back his wince when Marik pulled the black material away from his chest, revealing the shredded remains of his shirt. Dried blood stuck to the material. It was ripped in three places, long gashes cutting into Bakura's flesh beneath the blackened strips, jagged scars scraping across his skin.
Marik frowned before leaning down and pulling up Bakura's trouser leg, ignoring the pale student's protestations. There was another deep cut there, on Bakura's left shin, which was still bleeding profusely. Marik swore between his teeth.
"Get away from there." Bakura's voice, though tired, was as snappy and brusque as ever. He reached down and pulled Marik back up into the seat next to him, panting even at that small exertion, his pale forehead glimmering with a sheen of sweat. Marik watched, worry in his violet eyes. Bakura looked utterly exhausted, his skin drawn tightly around the bony features of his face, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyes slid closed under Marik's scrutinising glare.
Biting his lower lip, Marik lifted one hand and ran his fingers through Bakura's hair, peeling it back from his sweaty forehead. Marik sighed. The blood needed dealing with; it was pooling on the sticky floor by Bakura's left leg. Moving swiftly, Marik wriggled out from under Bakura's arm and dipped down onto the floor again, rolling Bakura's trouser leg up with firm, quick fingers.
Bakura started with a grunt. His foot connected with Marik's shin. "Get off me."
"Oh? So you like bleeding all over the floor, do you?" Marik rolled his eyes, ignoring Bakura's stubborn kicks. He sat back on the floor, wrinkling his nose at the dust and dirt, and proceeded to tear a strip from the hem of his own plain black shirt.
Bakura watched with a raised brow. "What are you doing?"
"I don't have a bandage." Marik glared up at Bakura. "You better be grateful – I don't rip up my clothes for just anyone."
"I'm honoured," Bakura responded sarcastically, but his voice was far weaker than it should have been.
Marik frowned up at him before turning his attention back to the wound on Bakura's leg. It was deep and bleeding profusely, the edges jagged, and it had to be excruciatingly painful. Marik flicked a glance back up at Bakura's face; his eyes were closed, features betraying nothing except a slight tightening in the corners of his eyes and mouth. Marik's brow creased with worry. Quickly, he wound the strip of cloth around Bakura's leg, binding the wound tightly shut.
Bakura's face betrayed no emotion, though he hissed. "You don't have to pull it so tight."
"I do, actually," Marik pointed out, worry making his tone sharper than normal. "It's bleeding lots. Keep still."
Bakura's only retort was to growl. He sighed when Marik pulled the cloth of his trousers back down before sitting next to him again, watching with concerned violet eyes. Bakura cracked one eye open just enough to send Marik a small glare. "Quit worrying. I am fine."
Marik shook his head, his gaze dipping down to Bakura's slashed chest. "No, you aren't." He reached forwards again, peeling away Bakura's black coat so he could examine the wounds – three long lacerations, though thankfully nowhere near as deep as the cut on his leg. Marik frowned, tugging at the few scraps that remained of Bakura's shirt.
Bakura hissed, swatting at Marik's hands. "Those aren't even bleeding anymore."
"I should still look at them," Marik argued. "They're probably going to get infected – "
"They won't." Bakura growled. He caught Marik's cheeks in his cold, pale hands, and turned Marik's face up to his, forcing their gazes to clash. His brown eyes pinned Marik firmly in place.
Marik blew out a long breath before begrudgingly nodding. "Fine. Let's get you home, then, so I can clean you up properly."
"I never knew you were my mother, Marik." Bakura's tone was weakly amused, his breathing still sounding shallow.
Marik flipped a finger at him before wrapping an arm back around Bakura's shoulders, supporting him carefully. He stood slowly, giving Bakura plenty of time to adjust, but no matter how careful he was Bakura's left leg still shook the moment it touched the ground.
Bakura spoke through gritted teeth. "This isn't going to work."
"You could hop home?" Marik half-joked, but he let Bakura drop back into the seat. With a sigh, Marik glanced around the empty theatre, noting the number of steps they would have to climb to reach the exit, never mind the long walk half-way across town to get back to their flat. There was no way Bakura could manage that.
"I'll be fine in a few minutes," Bakura grunted.
Marik arched a brow, his lips pursed as he glanced down at Bakura. "Somehow, I doubt that. I can always carry you home."
"I am not being carried across a city by a damn Egyptian weakling," Bakura snorted, his expression almost dangerous.
"I'm not a weakling!" Marik instantly flared. "And if you're going to go out and get yourself stabbed, you don't get a say."
"You should see the other guy." Bakura's tone was feebly joking. He sat back in his seat, leaning forwards slightly and wincing, one hand lightly pressing to his scarred chest.
Marik shook his head, snarling at that response. Bending down, he shoved his face right in Bakura's and scolded him, violet eyes flashing. "Just what happened? Last I heard, people don't get stabbed going to a concert."
Bakura arched a brow, totally unfazed. He smirked a little, tilting his head, though his hands were still lightly pressed to his aching chest. "You actually sound worried."
Marik ignored him. He did pull back a little, however, to better meet Bakura's gaze; Marik's violet eyes were flinty, sizzling the air between them as he spoke in a low, tight tone. "Where. Were. You."
"Clearly, not at a concert." Bakura shifted a little, leaning forwards. His eyes drifted shut.
Marik's words were short and cold. "You lied to me."
"You would have freaked out if I hadn't," Bakura scoffed lightly.
"I'm freaking out anyway," Marik snarled. "Tell me what the fuck you were doing."
Bakura sighed, his eyes remaining closed in his drawn, pale face. He winced, moving his fingers along the scars on his chest as he probed cautiously at the wounds. He drew in a cool breath. "I went to get one of the Items."
Marik stopped short. Silence rang through the desolate theatre. "...What?"
"I went to get one of the Items." Bakura repeated, his eyes snapping open to meet Marik's gaze. A smirk tugged at his lips as he leaned forwards again, reaching under his coat and round behind his back, fingers extracting something. Marik caught a glint of gold and despite himself he could not stop himself from leaning forwards, eagerness glinting in his violet eyes. Bakura caught his expression and his smirk widened. With a flourish, Bakura pulled out a band of glinting gold, shaped in a circle with five points dangling from it. In the centre was a stylised eye, gleaming even in the dull lights of the theatre.
Marik's jaw dropped. His eyes widened, fingers reaching greedily for the gold before he realised what he was doing. Bakura's brown eyes glittered as he lifted the Item, allowing Marik's fingers to brush the gold surface. It was cold against his brown skin.
"What is that?" Marik's voice was a quiet whisper.
Bakura's tone was proud, despite its slight tremor. "It's the Millennium Ring. One of the seven Millennium Items. And now, it's mine."
"It's..." Marik's voice trailed into silence, speechless. There was no word to describe the mystery of the Item before him, the way it hummed in the silence of the theatre, how it shone in the vague shadows. The shape in the middle was extremely familiar, sending throwback's to Marik's childhood echoing through his mind. "It's Egyptian."
"So it is," Bakura remarked with a grin.
"That's the Eye of Horus." Marik watched it with wide eyes, examining the gold short-distance. His fingers brushed the gold again, noting the incredible texture, the smooth metal, wrought with the talent of the Ancients. He shook his head, awed. "This was made in the time of the great Pharaohs."
Bakura smirked. "So it was. This Item was worth getting stabbed for, I think."
Those words snapped Marik back to the present. He blinked, his eyes zeroing back into focus as he sent Bakura another dark glare. "No, it wasn't. I can't believe you got stabbed for some stupid piece of gold."
"Oh, but it's such a pretty piece," Bakura chuckled.
Marik's brows lowered. "This is no laughing matter."
"On the contrary, my dear." Bakura's grin was so wide that it almost didn't fit on his face. "Laughing is exactly what I feel like doing. I'm going to be laughing for a very long time."
"What are you talking about?" Marik questioned wearily.
"The Items," Bakura responded, exuberant tone accompanied by extravagant hand gestures, "Have a story. A story rather personal to me. You see, they once belonged to our dear friend Yami's grandfather, recovered on an expedition to the tombs of the Ancient Pharaohs, as your keen Egyptian mind so quickly noticed."
Marik's eyes widened. "Yami's family are tomb robbers?"
"I believe the term is archaeologist," Bakura responded smugly.
Marik shook his head. "Father used to call them tomb robbers. Worse even than the ones of old, because these were foreigners, desecrating the sacred places of the Pharaohs. No treasures should have been removed from those places."
"These ones were," Bakura responded. He grinned. "The seven Millennium Items, taken from one of the richest tombs of the Valley of the Dead and held dear by Yami's grandfather, and the rest of that damned family."
Marik blinked, realisation slowly dawning on him. He spoke quietly. "And you ... you want to steal them in revenge? Is that the idea?"
"But of course." Bakura's voice was smooth as silk and as dangerous as the tongue of a viper.
Marik shook his head. He almost wanted to laugh. "You got yourself stabbed for revenge?!"
"There is no greater cause." Bakura stood straight upright suddenly, his left leg throbbing. He sent Marik a hard, sharp glare. "Don't you understand yet? Yami deserves this and far worse. No one else will take anything from him, so it's down to me to avenge the dead of my family."
"And you're doing that by stealing some gold?" Marik's voice was vaguely disbelieving.
Bakura took a shaky step forwards, his trembling hands landing hard on Marik's shoulder. He growled. "Of course. You fail to grasp the importance of these Items."
"They're just scrappy bits of gold –" Marik argued defensively.
"They are far more than that." Bakura snarled. "They were from the expedition that killed Yami's father. His mother died when he was three, leaving him in the sole care of his grandfather. These scrappy bits of gold are all Yami has of his family."
"Yami ... Yami's parents are dead?" Marik blinked, shocked.
Bakura gave Marik a harsh shake. "I forget how fucking clueless you are. Yes, his parents are dead. His grandfather and that little brother of his are all Yami has in the world, along with these seven Items."
"So you're taking them?" Marik arched a brow. "Why? So he will feel what you felt?"
"Never." Bakura's voice cracked, his intense gaze inches away from Marik's. "He will never feel what I felt. No one will ever understand."
Marik blinked. He fancied that in Bakura's brown eyes a fire burned, flames flickering deep in their ochre depths, screams and death and pain and loss echoing through the years. Bakura's gaze was a gateway to his past. Pain shone through his every feature. But, it was a pain that Marik knew. In those eyes, he saw his own past reflected. The screams could have come from a tomb as easily as a burning house; loss of family, loss of respect, loss of hope. Marik's brows furrowed. "I understand."
Bakura looked faintly surprised.
Marik pushed forwards, his tone wavering slightly. "I lost my family, too. I understand. And I'll help you get the rest of the Items."
Bakura's eyes widened. His jaw clenched, lips parting slightly. He tried to speak once, closed his mouth, then took a breath and tried again, swallowing harshly before speaking. "You ... you want to help?"
Marik managed to summon up a smirk of his own. "Well, naturally. Someone needs to stop you from getting stabbed again."
Bakura blinked. He stared at Marik for another moment, allowing the words to sink into his skull, before his lips stretched wide into a smirk, perfectly mirroring Marik's. Before Marik had time to move, Bakura had stepped forwards, grabbed him by the back of his head, and slammed their lips together, kissing him harshly. Marik started, eyes going wide. However, Bakura didn't stop, so Marik soon melted into him, kissing back as he wound his arms carefully around Bakura's torso. His eyes slid closed as he edged closer, lips meeting until he needed to breathe.
Bakura drew back first, his brown eyes glinting. He wrapped an arm around Marik's shoulders, leaning heavily against him to take most of the weight off his wounded leg, and started to limp towards the stairs.
"Where are you going?" Marik's head was still reeling, but he stumbled along beside Bakura, managing to keep his balance and hold Bakura upright at the same time.
The smirk on Bakura's face could have stretched the length of the Nile. "If you're serious about helping me, we need to get the rest of the Items. And that means we need to see one person."
"Oh really?" Marik started to help Bakura up the stairs, shooting him a quizzical violet look. "And who would that be?"
Bakura's gaze glittered. "We're going to visit Kaiba."
SO I'M FINALLY ACTUALLY GETTING TO PLOT. Sorry this update is quite short and there isn't much actual shipping in it. There will be more in the future. Thanks for sticking with me, and I ask your patience on my next update, too. Thank you for reading! - Jem