For the second morning in a row, Bakura was abruptly woken by his phone. This time someone was calling him.
Blindly, he slapped the bedside table until his hand covered his mobile.
"Hello?" he answered, eyes still closed.
"Come open your door," the annoying voice that was Marik Ishtar resonated through his ears.
"Alright," Bakura sighed before hanging up. He looked at the screen and realised Marik was very early.
Yesterday, after their deal, proper introductions were made and they decided to search Bakura's flat the next day. The sooner the better. Plus, they both had it off.
Loud pounding was heard down the hallway.
Bakura groaned and quickly got out of bed, stumbling through the hallway as his vision blurred from forgetting his glasses.
More knocking.
"I'm coming, you wanker!" he yelled, tired and confused as to why Marik was there suddenly.
Hastily, Bakura opened the door to reveal an unimpressed Marik.
Bakura's left hand clutched his head, waiting for the small blood rush migraine to go away as the slightly blurry form that was Marik appeared to be giving him a judgemental look.
"What took you so long?" the blond immediately demanded.
"I was sleeping!" he snapped back, stepping aside to let the younger man in.
Marik crossed his arms and made no attempt to hide that he was looking over Bakura. "Nice hair," Marik smirked at the bed head.
The white haired man knew it was much flatter on the side he slept on that night and probably looked a little ridiculous. He gave no answer to his rude guest, but that didn't stop the blond from further commenting.
"You looked a lot hotter yesterday."
Did he...did he seriously just say that!? How the hell do I even...was that even a compliment!?
"Why are you here so early?" Bakura ignored the blond's previous words.
"Change of plans. I can't do it in the afternoon anymore because of some group project. I tried texting you about it."
"I was sleeping."
"You should probably put on some pants," Marik gave a nod towards Bakura's lower half.
In his rush to answer the door, he forgot that he was only clad in boxers and some old Radiohead t-shirt. "I'll get on that," he grumbled.
"What's that anyway?" the blond pointed at the writing on the shirt, slipping off his shoes.
"You can't be serious?" Everyone knew who Radiohead was!
"What?" Marik replied innocently.
"It's a band!" Bakura abruptly turned around to walk out of his entrance and into the living room. Everything was pristine as always.
"Wow," he heard Marik say behind him.
"I borrowed that book for O.C.D.," he replied, no sense in hiding it.
"I can tell."
"What about you?" his curiosity was piqued. Marik didn't seem to have any problems. If anything, he was confident to a fault.
"Not O.C.D."
The blond's avoidance intrigued Bakura further. A part of him was now craving the answer. A bigger part of him was craving his coffee.
"I'll be right back," he informed his inconvenient guest. Once in his bedroom, he put on his glasses and re-entered the world of clear vision. They were simple, rectangular black frames. The kind that most people had nowadays. For pants, he pulled on the jeans he wore yesterday. There was no use in bothering with his hair or changing his shirt; his O.C.D. didn't influence his appearance as much as his material possessions. He was laziest on Sundays, the day he couldn't give any fucks.
When he walked back into the living room, he found Marik sitting on his couch. The first thing he noticed was his cigarette pack, no longer aligned with the coffee table's edge; it had been moved.
In a few short strides, he was in front of Marik straightening the position of said pack. "Don't touch my stuff," he scolded the blond. It was better to stop bad habits now before Marik got into more of his things.
"Fine, I won't ruin your precious arrangements," the blond rolled his eyes.
Bakura took the time to properly look down at his problem since he first walked through the door. The young man had a backpack with him. Black socks, black pants, black shirt. All fitted. He would look like a goth if it weren't for the casual nature of his clothing and the shockingly blond hair against his tanned skin. Even if he did have eyeliner on...more than yesterday. For a faint second, he saw a glint of gold where earrings would be before settling on lavender eyes that stared back into his own, unreadable.
He had finally found someone more exotic looking than himself.
"Well now you look cute, so I guess it makes up for it."
The blond snapped him out of his thoughts. He parted his lips to answer, but only found painful silence. Was this really happening to him!?
Marik on the other hand, didn't look perturbed in the slightest.
"Are you...are you hitting on me?" Bakura finally asked, too confused to let it slide.
"What? No! I just like your glasses, geez. I'm not gay," Marik convincingly replied.
Still a really weird way to compliment someone. The older one was content with dropping it for now. "I'm going to make coffee. Do you want some?" he offered.
"Yeah, thanks." Marik smiled.
The first time he'd ever seen the blond smiling.
"Come with me," he gestured towards the kitchen, not quite trusting to leave the blond alone.
Marik obediently followed him and leaned against the counter watching Bakura fill the coffee maker with water, then ground coffee.
After pressing the button, Bakura placed identical red mugs on his spotless counter top. "Do you take sugar or?"
The blond gently shook his head. "Just black."
Another answer that surprised Bakura and unwillingly enticed him. He poured a small amount of milk into the bottom of his mug before joining Marik against the counter.
Both watched the slow drip as a rich aroma filled the air.
"So where are you from?" he had been wondering since their first meeting.
"Egypt."
"Oh...but what about your origins?" Bakura couldn't think of a better way to word it. He was certain he was speaking to an American.
Marik tilted his head and a small frown graced his features. "Egypt," he repeated in a peculiar tone.
It almost sounded defensive. Okay, so maybe the tan was his natural skin tone. "You dye your hair then?"
The frown on Marik's face deepened. "No, it's my real hair colour!"
"A naturally blond Egyptian?" The disbelief seeped into his voice.
"Says the guy with snow white hair!"
"...sorry...you must admit it's not common," he tried to alleviate the situation.
"Hmph."
"I actually thought you were American based on your accent," Bakura offered as an explanation to his ignorance and offensive remark.
"My English tutor was from America," Marik replied.
Bakura knew it was a disaster waiting to happen, but he couldn't keep his mouth shut. "Are your eyes real?" he ventured.
This time Marik's expression deadpanned. "Yes. I have blond hair and lavender eyes. They are completely natural and I am Egyptian born from generations of Egyptians as far back as it goes. Is your hair even real?" the younger one challenged.
"Yes, my hair is real," Bakura deflated, embarrassed that his curiosity overtook his common sense. He just had to know.
He averted his eyes back to the machine and waited for the remaining drops to fall before filling their cups with black gold. He stirred his coffee and quickly rinsed the spoon before placing it in the dishwasher. He hated to leave dirty dishes in the sink. Bakura yawned before facing the young man again.
Marik was looking at him with a rather nonchalant smile, apparently already moving past his faux pas.
"So, what brings you to London?" he asked, taking his cup and making his way back to the living room.
Marik followed his lead and seated himself on the couch next to Bakura before answering. "Many reasons. My therapist thought a change of scenery would be good for me. My sister figured I should use the occasion to attend school as well. I'm attending university for history and psychology. Mostly history though because my sister wants me to join her as a curator. Plus, Egypt isn't exactly known for its mental health advancements. My family figured I would get better help here."
"Help for?" Bakura's quest for the answer was turning into a fixation.
The blond grimaced.
Oh, he fucked up again.
"I really don't want to talk about it."
"It's alright," he shrugged and hastily changed the subject. "You're a student and work part time?"
"Yeah, also my sister's idea. You know, responsibility and stuff."
"How long have you been here?"
"Almost a year."
He wanted to ask more, but this was the wanker that owed him money. He wasn't supposed to be interested, or nice. What am I doing?
"What do you do?" the blond suddenly spoke up.
Those lavender eyes always seemed to be observing him with a sort of detachment. It almost made him feel like an experiment.
"I'm a paralegal for a corporation. Mostly, I assist the lawyers with their lawsuits, but during slower periods I update contract drafts to meet the new legal standards and such. You know, tell my bosses about the new regulations we're supposed to follow. Sometimes they listen. Basically, I do a lot of research and paperwork," Bakura attempted to briefly describe his job.
"Sounds boring," was the dry reply he received.
"Why, thank you, Marik. You have such a way with words," he nearly rolled his eyes and took a sip of his coffee. Soon he would be awake and they would get this over with.
"Hey, I know what could make this more interesting," the blond spoke, a more animated smile crossing his lips.
Bakura was suspicious. "Hmm?" he arched an eyebrow in question.
"Well, seeing as I'm going out of my way to deal with your problem, I should get compensation when you're inevitably proven wrong," Marik smirked.
"Don't be so sure," he sneered.
"Once you are proven wrong, it will be obvious how much of a waste of my time it was. I think you should owe me...as gratitude. But just to make you feel better about it, like there's a chance you're right, let's turn it into a bet."
"Are you patronizing me?" Bakura replied affronted.
"Just trying not to hurt your feelings-"
"Bloody prat!"
"Rude. Anyway, we should make a bet where if you're wrong, you buy me dinner and drinks-"
"Like a date?" Bakura cut in. So he was hitting on me earlier?
"No! Not like a date! I already told you I'm not gay."
"Right." He was not convinced in the slightest at this point.
"Whatever," the blond replied, no longer bothering with defending his apparent gayness.
"And if I'm right, you pay the fee and buy me dinner and drinks?" Bakura asked, wanting to clarify this ridiculous wager.
"Precisely."
"Fine. Now hurry up and finish your coffee so we can get this over with."
"Doesn't take much to irritate you, does it?" Marik spoke amused.
Bakura merely glared back at the man.
He finished his cup rather quickly, but Marik continued to stare him down, taking his sweet time. The Egyptian seemed to be enjoying himself a little too much; everything about his position and slow movements showed that he was at ease.
Anxiety my ass. Why did he even need that book?
He, on the other hand, felt uncomfortable under the scrutinizing stare and he was in his own flat! Uncharacteristically, he found himself reaching for his cigarettes. It was so early, too...
Bakura took a relaxing exhale before crossing his arms and legs, making himself as snug and closed off as possible in his corner of the couch.
"You know that will give you wrinkles," the blond commented.
"Sod off."
"Your loss," Marik shrugged.
"Why do you even care?" he asked, tapping some ash into its designated tray.
"I don't, but you should. You have a nice face."
Again with the odd compliments! "Stop doing that!"
"Doing what?" Marik seemed perplexed, taking a sip of his coffee.
"That...that...those weird compliments you've been saying! You're not supposed to be doing that!"
"I can do whatever I want."
"We hate each other!"
"...I don't hate you."
"...well you should."
"...whatever, Bakura. You're not worth hating," the ever nonchalant blond replied.
A normal person would be glad, but it still managed to strike a nerve with the white haired man. "I am worth hating. I am worth...something," he muttered and exhaled the smoke through his nose.
"You look like a dragon when you do that."
What the fuck is up with this kid?
"Will you fucking stop saying things to me!" Bakura yelled, more exasperated than the situation required.
"Okay, okay. Chill. I don't understand what your problem is anyway," Marik shook his head, obviously thinking Bakura was a lost cause.
Maybe he was...
"Look, I'm sorry. You woke me up ahead of time; I'm not entirely myself right now. I don't even smoke this early. And you're really fucking strange, okay?" Bakura rubbed his temple with his free hand, hoping to soothe his mind as he softly explained himself to Marik.
"Just because I said you were hot, you think I'm strange? I have no problem giving out compliments unlike a certain someone."
"Am I supposed to flatter you?"
"You're crazy if you haven't yet," the blond shot him a mischievous smile, leaving Bakura confused as to whether he was serious or joking about that...or both.
"You also said I was cute and reminded you of a dragon," he muttered, trying to make his reaction sound reasonable.
"And that you have a nice face," Marik added.
"And that I have a nice- okay, are you hitting on me or not?"
"Not at all," the Egyptian replied in the most ambiguous tone possible.
I give up.
"Finished your coffee?" he asked, snuffing out the least enjoyable fag he had in his life.
Marik held out his empty cup, and Bakura took it to rinse out and place in the dishwasher along with his own. He returned to the living room to find Marik perusing his bookshelves. "What are you doing?"
"Just looking."
"Good. Don't touch anything," Bakura warned.
"Well, how can I find that book you lost if I'm not allowed to move things around?"
"What you see on the shelf is exactly what is there. You have no reason to move it. And, I didn't lose it."
"Yeah, whatever. What if you hid it behind this row of books?" the blond feigned innocence in his taunt.
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Says the guy who stalked me."
"I DID NOT STALK YOU! DON'T TOUCH MY STUFF!" he yelled.
"But Bakura, the deal was that I should feel satisfied with our search," the blond smirked.
Bakura wanted so badly to smack him, but instead he found himself running a hand through his hair in frustration. He took a deep breath and ignored his craving for another cigarette so early. "Please refrain yourself from unnecessarily moving things," he spoke slowly and forcefully, struggling to remain calm. Why did he ever fucking agree to this?
"I will try my best," Marik replied unconvincingly.
The blond went about touching everything on the shelves he possibly could.
A few items moved in the process, only very slightly, but still Bakura saw them and it was all he could see. He stood near the couch, clenching his fists as he resisted the urge to run over and fix it right away. At least, not until Marik was done with that area. "You're doing it on purpose," he spoke through gritted teeth as he glared at the back of the blond's head.
"Am not. Stop looking at my ass."
"Wha-what!? I am NOT looking at your ass!" Bakura was flustered.
He felt like he was going to have a headache. Everything felt off to him. His things were being touched and misplaced, and he wanted to rip Marik's head off with his pseudo-seductions or whatever the fuck he was playing at.
Deep breaths, deep breaths. Slowly. Calm yourself, Bakura.
Marik paid no attention to him, but attempted to leave the most subtly disordered bookshelf possible.
"You are Satan himself, aren't you?" Bakura asked, mentally snapping at Marik's arrangements.
"For you, I could be anything," Marik laughed, enjoying himself too much.
"What the hell is that even supposed to mean?"
"It means exactly that. I could be mean or I could be nice, all depends on you," the blond casually replied.
Bakura couldn't be bothered any longer to try and figure the Egyptian out. He began rearranging everything that Marik messed up as the blond continued to search beside him. He was very tempted to drop a book on Marik when he examined the lower shelves, but he managed to resist that urge.
What felt like an exhausting infinity to Bakura's anxieties regarding his bookshelves finally ended. Adjusting the last row of things, Bakura looked over to see Marik peering behind his TV.
"Why the hell would it be there?" Bakura asked, more confused than frustrated.
"Maybe it fell or you hid it." Marik shrugged.
What a twat.
He observed the blond looking around his living room, searching for something else to wreck.
Suddenly, Marik dropped to the floor to look under his couch.
"You won't find anything there," he scoffed.
"Except for a dust ball-"
"What!?" he interrupted incredulously. He was so fucking clean! There was no way...
Barely on his own knees to check, Bakura knew he had been had for Marik began laughing. His suspicions were confirmed when he found nothing beneath his couch.
He's taking the piss out of me.
"You're such a wanker," Bakura pouted as he stood up.
"Aww Bakura," Marik faked regret, placing a hand on his arm.
The white haired man slapped it away. "Don't touch me," he hissed, a sour look on his face.
"Oh, come on. Don't be so cross. It was only a joke," the blond tried to amend.
Bakura continued to frown, crossing his arms. "Why did you need that book anyway?"
Immediately, the younger man's disposition changed to discomfort as his right hand grabbed onto his hanging left arm, and he looked down. A pitiful gesture. "I already told you, I don't want to talk about it."
Bakura sighed. He was dealing with the most sensitive insensitive prick ever. "You're exhausting, you know that?" he tried to lighten the situation, make some form of joke out of it, even throwing in a little smile. What the hell was wrong with him?
"Why else do you think I'm in England? They sent me for a reason," Marik replied, confidence and indifference returning, but the words only depressed Bakura further.
He was so bad with people...
The silence stretched on for longer than he wanted to, leaving it to Marik to break it. "Don't start caring now, Bakura. Apathy is better. I think we both know that," Marik smiled, his pompous attitude returning.
"Don't patronize me, you pretentious twat," he bitterly replied, regardless of the truth in those words.
It did not deter the blond, who continued to smirk. They were back on track.
"You're so petulant."
"Big words for a small mind."
"Hey!" Marik cried out, offended.
Bakura smirked. They were back on track indeed.
"Let's finish your futile treasure hunt."
"Well, I was going to be nice and skip the kitchen, but I suppose we should be thorough," Marik drawled out dramatically.
Bakura shot him a murderous look in vain. He spent almost an hour tidying up the disaster that Marik purposely left in his wake. Said blond boy was watching him rearrange his kitchen with that damn amused smile.
"Enjoying yourself?" the Egyptian teased.
"Just dandy," he replied, sarcasm leaking through his gritted teeth.
"You know, I quite like watching you suffer like this," the blond continued to taunt, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.
"I get the feeling that goes beyond sadism..." Bakura calmly countered, his back turned to the Egyptian as he painstakingly re-organised his cupboards.
"Come again?"
"You wish."
"...touché," Marik relented, a pout gracing his features.
It was oddly...endearing? Whatever... This wanker was rubbing off on him...that sounded wrong. Bakura forced his mind to go blank before his thoughts got any stranger.
They continued their odd search throughout the rest of Bakura's flat. The bathroom was uneventful with only Marik commenting on how clean it was.
The bedroom was another story.
"What's up with your bed?" Marik asked.
"What do you mean?"
"It's not like the rest of your flawless place!"
"Oh...I just don't see a point in making it."
"You don't?" the blond replied shocked.
"It's one of my exceptions, okay? I like my bed to be messy," Bakura poorly explained impatiently.
"You know, people believe that the state of your room represents the state of your mind."
"Something you learned in your psychology classes?" he retorted.
Marik merely shrugged, but continued speaking. "Just makes me wonder about you. Everything else is orderly, but your bed is wild. There must be something sexual to that," the blond smirked.
Bakura felt his eye twitch. That bloody prat.
"Too bad you'll never find out," he snapped back. He desperately wanted to change subjects. Discussing his sexual prowess with an in-denial homosexual who was vaguely hitting on him was not his cup of tea.
"It is too bad," the Egyptian lazily drawled, forever cryptic.
Bakura groaned and sat down on his bed, rubbing his forehead in irritation. He took a deep breath before speaking. "You start searching. I'm going to have another fag. And please, try not to mess everything up too much."
He reached into the drawer of his bedside table and pulled out a pack of cigarettes that he kept there for random occasions like this one. Inside the half empty pack was a lighter, which he used to promptly start his wonderfully calming bad habit. Bakura relaxed as the smoke slowly consumed him. He pulled a tissue out of the box and spread it out on the small table, using it as a makeshift ash tray.
He felt the bed dip as Marik sat next to him. He glanced over out of the corner of his eye, noting that the blond seemed spaced out, maybe taking a break of his own.
The silence spread until the cigarette had burnt halfway, when Marik spoke, "This is tiring."
"You're one to talk," he muttered.
"I'm going to be nice and skip going through all your clothing."
"Oh goody," Bakura couldn't contain his sarcasm, albeit happy to not have to spend an hour fixing that too.
"Yeah, I figured you weren't insane enough to go to that extent for hiding a book," Marik admitted.
"So you chose to torture me instead? You're such a nice chap," he spoke dryly.
"And win a free meal out of it," the Egyptian nearly sang with smugness.
"And here I thought there were no good people left in the world."
Bakura brought the fag to his mouth, delicately resting it between his lips, and took a sharp inhale, holding it. He should have just paid the damn fee and avoided all of this.
"I'll do one quick look over of this room, and the other for consistency's sake. Then we'll be done here. Alright?" Marik offered.
Bakura exhaled slowly. "Just in time for lunch," he observed placidly. Smoking was always so soothing...
"Yeah, I'm actually pretty hungry."
"Let's go eat something," Bakura suddenly declared. Where the fuck did that come from?
Marik visibly perked up at that. "Like, you're going to cook?" the Egyptian tilted his head in curiosity.
"Well, I could do that." Bakura was decent in the kitchen.
"I am a vegetarian by the way," the blond warned him.
"Of course you are," he replied, stopping himself from rolling his eyes. Predictable.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Marik frowned.
"Nothing," Bakura shook his head. Seeing as the only remotely vegetarian thing he ever made was salad, cooking was no longer an option. He decided to go with his original and easier course. "We're going out...er, I mean, we're going to eat out."
"Where?"
"Some place near. You pick. My treat," he was too late to stop the last words from escaping his mouth. What in the world possessed him to say that?
Marik smiled brightly. "You don't have to, but thanks!"
"It's nothing...really," he mumbled, looking away to finish his cigarette in peace.
Marik stood up and looked around his bedroom. "Might as well get this done," he explained, although this time he barely touched anything.
Bakura took a final drag before snuffing out his fag and balling up the tissue to discard in the kitchen bin.
Marik followed him out of the room, evidently satisfied with his pseudo-search. "Should we get that last room done quickly? Cause I need to head out after lunch for my project," the blond asked.
"Of course," Bakura nodded, glad to have his flat's inspection almost completed.
Marik appeared to be unimpressed with the small room.
On the desk were multiple files and a small pile of neatly stacked law books. There was also a chair, a lamp, a printer, and some boxes housing the random items that Bakura wasn't quite sure what to do with. He considered it storage.
The Egyptian barely glanced at the room, immediately heading for the desk, curiosity piqued by the folders.
The moment he picked one up Bakura was at his side slamming it back down. "You can't look at those! They're legal cases," he scolded.
Marik pouted in a very weak attempt to convince him otherwise.
"They are the property of my employer and cannot be seen by anyone who isn't directly involved. Not only is it compromising, but also illegal for you to read. So don't touch," he warned sternly.
"Fine," Marik whined.
"Don't take it so badly," Bakura smiled, his turn to be condescending.
"I'm done with this room anyway," the blond tried to dismiss, crossing his arms.
"Let's go eat, Marik," he draped an arm around the younger one's shoulders, steering him out of the room. A moment later, realisation hit and he dropped his arm. Shit.
On the other hand, the Egyptian had seemed to relax under the touch. "Are you really going out like that? At least comb your hair," was the haughty suggestion of Marik Ishtar as they exited the room.
Too drained to get angry, Bakura sighed loudly and marched to his bedroom. He found the hair elastic he used yesterday and quickly tied up his hair. He figured everything else about him was presentable for Marik. Not that he cared...he just didn't want him bitching anymore.
He returned to the living room to find Marik picking up his bag. The Egyptian gave him a peculiar expression, unreadable, causing the white haired man to feel a little self-conscious as he grabbed his own essential items, stuffing them in his pockets.
He was about to put on his shoes when Marik stopped him, having other plans for him instead. "Try this with your hair down," the blond held out a black slouchy beanie.
Bakura obliged, pulling out the hair elastic and putting on the hat, effectively hiding his bedhead.
"That goes much better with your outfit," Marik commented with a contended smile.
"I'm pretty sure I look like a wanker right now," he replied.
Marik frowned. "No, you look nice. I like your hair down. Now, let's go!" the blond declared, pushing Bakura towards the door.
Why am I letting this happen?