Bakura stood outside Marik's front door.
Minutes before his work day finished, he received a text inviting him over for supper. He accepted. Ignoring all common sense, he accepted.
The autumn air was beginning to chill as the days got colder and the nights became longer. The sky emitted a grey cast, typical of England's rainy weather. Luckily, there had yet to be a drop, but Bakura was certain it would pour soon.
His messenger bag weighed down his left shoulder. His arm clutched his mid-section while his right hand held the remaining fag close to his face. His skin was numbing from the temperature. His right upper arm remained clamped to his side, left hand safely tucked in between for warmth.
The small ember at the end of his cancer stick barely heated his index and middle finger.
He noticed the paint was starting to chip around the door frame, and resisted the urge to peel it.
Taking a final drag, he flicked his cigarette towards the sidewalk where it died on the asphalt, and knocked on the door.
When Marik answered the door, warmth and the smell of spiced food greeted him.
The Egyptian regarded him for a moment before a small smile graced his features. "You're wearing your glasses," he stated.
"Yeah, my eyes felt too dry for contacts this morning," Bakura replied.
"I haven't seen you wear them in a while. I like you better with them on."
"I think you mentioned this before," he replied, uncertain on how to respond.
The blond tilted his head, almost gauging his reaction, before pulling him inside. "You're right on time. I just finished cooking."
Bakura was slipping out of his shoes, appreciating the heat the flat offered. "What did you make?"
"You'll see," the blond smiled playfully, leading Bakura to the kitchen.
They're going to fuck. He's going to put on that stupid little act of hating Marik and then they're definitely going to fuck. Fuck… Fuck? Fuck!
The Egyptian went to the stove and began scooping various ingredients onto plates. Some of it looked vaguely familiar to Bakura, but he wasn't entirely sure from where he stood. Upon adding the last part to the meal, Marik turned around to see the paralegal still standing. "Well, sit down," he spoke as he set the plates.
Tiredly, Bakura approached the table and seated himself across from Marik. There appeared to be pasta, rice, chickpeas and potentially tomato sauce in his plate, along with some mystery ingredients. Lifting his head, he gave Marik a genuinely surprised look. "What's this?"
"It's to thank you for looking over my papers."
"I thought you said you were going to buy me something?" he asked curiously. His eyes barely narrowed, implying some suspicion. He's being nice.
"Well, this is more personal." The blond shrugged.
Seriously? "More personal than a hand job?" He smirked, but still, his mind raced into dead ends as he tried to understand Marik's reasoning and intentions. Were sexual favours that flippant to him?
The student shook his head, an amused smile still plastered on his face. "It's my favourite meal, and I wanted to share it with you," Marik explained.
"Oh." Something deep inside told him he should feel touched. You're doomed.
"There isn't any meat, but I think you'll like it anyway," the younger man continued.
"I'm sure I will," he reassured before continuing, "So, what is it?"
Marik had already picked up his fork and began mixing the food. "It's kushari. It consists of rice, lentils, pasta, chickpeas, fried onions, garlic and tomato sauce. It's really popular in Egypt and known as the 'end of the month' meal."
"End of the month?"
"You throw together the ingredients you have left at the end of the month and it tends to make kushari."
The paralegal nodded before picking up a forkful to try himself. It was unexpectedly mild, but still delicious. A rather unique combination of flavours blended in his mouth. "Tastes good," he said.
"Of course, I only like the best," the blond laughed. Does that include me?
"You're so cocky," he scoffed.
"At least I'm not arrogant like a certain someone." Marik gave the white haired man a pointed look.
"Look, all I said was that I liked your food. Don't let it get to your head." He refrained from rolling his eyes.
"I'm only joking. It's just nice to have something that reminds me of home every so often. I miss it..." The words died out in a sullen tone as the student neared the end of his sentence.
"Tell me about it," he replied, sympathetic towards the blond. Not good.
Despite everything, his mind was split into three. The first part occupied itself with obsessing over whether he actually properly saved that document before shutting down his computer at work. One of his daily anxieties. Stupid fucking thoughts.
The second lay in a pool of confusion, suffocating any hope before it surfaced. He longed to know exactly what he and Marik were. Bad.
The third was subconsciously picking at his food with purpose; eating the different ingredients separately, but making sure to alternate in order to keep equilibrium. Finally, he relented and mixed everything together.
"You want to hear about Egypt?" Marik questioned uncertainly.
"If you want to talk about it." He shrugged in spite of his own burning curiosity. Don't give him hope.
"When I wasn't being shuffled between psychiatrists and hospital staff, I tended to go outside. I did a lot of exploring, or at least, as much as I could do amongst the ruins." It was obvious in the blond's eyes that he was reminiscing of hot days and windswept sand.
"Sounds very different from here," he commented.
"Where did you grow up, Bakura?" Marik suddenly asked, taking a very uncomfortable interest in the paralegal.
"I grew up in Paignton," he carefully and reluctantly answered, his vexation clear in his tone.
"That doesn't tell me much. You're going to have to be more specific."
Bakura sighed in irritation. "It's a coastal town in the South of England. South West," he corrected himself.
"And?"
"And I ate a lot of seafood." Bakura chose to give minimal details of his deceitfully quiet sounding seaside life. He looked up from his plate to see Marik nearly glaring. "Mostly fish and chips," he annoyingly offered as his final clue.
The blond sighed in response, and took a sip of his water, almost disappointed in the lack of answer. Marik always had a way of compelling him to speak.
"I swam a lot, and, well, you know the rest," Bakura quietly admitted.
"There had to be more than that?"
"Variations of getting into trouble. It's all the same deep down. You know it all." His shoulders sagged in defeat as he brought another forkful to his mouth.
"I take you don't miss your home?"
"Nope."
Marik frowned in concern. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"Don't be. Trust me, it's for the better."
"That's what I want to think, but I still find myself missing mine. Maybe things would be different if I would have left on my own terms."
"So, you didn't want to come here?"
"Not entirely willingly. It's hard to have any say when your psychiatrist and family are calling the shots. Don't get me wrong, I love my siblings, but sometimes I hate them," Marik spoke sadly, his eyes distant. Bakura was uncertain on how to reply, so he remained silent.
"Sorry, I just...moving to London has helped, but it was never my idea. I miss Egypt," Marik stated dismally.
"Don't be sorry," Bakura countered quietly. Marik looked up at those words, vague intrigue clouding his eyes.
"I mean, you're allowed to miss it. Although, I'm...I like that you're here," he awkwardly spoke. What are you doing?
A small smile appeared on the blond's lips. "I like that, too."
"Try one," Marik spoke as he tossed a small wrapped item in Bakura's direction.
The foreign candy landed in his lap, Arabic label offering no hint of what it could be. The paralegal quirked an eyebrow at the student.
"It's gaz, a Persian pistachio nougat. We have a similar thing called halva, but I prefer gaz because of the rosewater they add to it," Marik clarified.
Bakura unwrapped the treat and took a bite. The consistency reminded him of a semi-hardened marshmallow. He could definitely taste the floral hint of rosewater mingling with pistachio. "It's pretty good," he declared upon finishing his piece.
Marik sat on the sofa, opposite end of him, with a triumphant smile as he turned on the telly. It was a safe distance, as it should be. People can't get involved at safe distances. You're too far.
"What do you want to watch?"
The blond pushed him out of his trance, forcing him to pay attention to the screen. Netflix's distinct red colour filled the background, offering a multitude of titles.
Marik scrolled through the options, nothing catching either of their eyes.
"I heard that was a good movie," Bakura commented as Cannibal Holocaust was briefly highlighted.
"Not watching that," Marik firmly declared.
"What about Martyrs?"
"I already tried watching it. It's too triggering."
"What the hell happened to you that would make that-"
"Please, Bakura, don't," Marik cut him off as he continued to scroll through the horror genre.
"What about Antichrist? It's supposed to be artistic...and not as gruesome as Martyrs," he suggested, ignoring what had just transpired between them.
"I'm not sure if artistic is the right word, but alright," the Egyptian agreed and selected the film.
Marik settled into his corner of the sofa, holding a pillow in his lap. The screen's colours flickered across his face; his lavender eyes changed into different shades, accentuating the hint of eyeliner, and glinting on gold jewellery.
Bakura found him much more interesting to watch, occasionally turning his head to keep track of the film. Every small grimace and hint of distaste showed itself through the Egyptian's expression as the plot progressed.
Soon, Bakura was snapped out of his daze. "Ah, what the fuck! Bakura, what kind of movies are you choosing!?" the blond exclaimed in disgust, turning to face him.
Bakura's eyes quickly glanced towards the screen to see what the issue was. He caught the end of the scene.
"You thought that was worse than the toddler falling out of the window?" he replied.
"That was less graphic!"
"I'm afraid this will probably get worse."
"You are no longer allowed to pick," the blond huffed as moved closer to Bakura, pillow still clutched in his arms.
The film continued for a little while longer with no major interruptions. Until the next horrid scene. "Oh god, I'm going to vomit," Marik declared in repulsion. Maybe this wasn't the greatest choice.
"I'm sorry. I heard it was controversial, but I didn't realise this would happen," he tried to apologise for his mishap.
The student cast him a glare. "I swear if this gets any worse..."
Unfortunately for the blond, the torture only increased. Marik's face was pallid as he looked on, horrified. His eyes were glued to the screen in morbid fascination.
The paralegal found it hard to look away as well.
"You said this wasn't as bad as Martyrs!" Marik accused.
"It didn't look like it was! I've never seen this before," Bakura tried to defend himself.
"She just...I think I'm going to be sick." Marik hid his face in his hands.
"I'm sorry!" he yelled desperately, and grabbed for the remote to stop the visual gore.
"You are never choosing a movie EVER AGAIN!"
"I'm sorry. I didn't know this was going to be triggering," he whispered. Uncertain of how to calm the distressed student, he ended up pulling Marik into his arms. Automatically, his fingers began to soothingly comb through the blond strands. Step 1.
The Egyptian buried his face into the inviting chest, easily falling into place. "It's not triggering; it's just sickening. Completely fucked. We are watching a comedy of my choosing," he muttered.
Encouraged by the lack of protest, he gently lay back on the sofa, pulling Marik down with him securely in his embrace. Step 2.
The blond twisted his body to reach the remote, and selected a new film which Bakura didn't care for.
As the opening credits played, the paralegal contented himself with tightening his hold around Marik's waist, face leaning into soft blond hair. After finding the most comfortable position, he felt Marik's fingers lace themselves with his. Step 3.
Becoming increasingly tired, he slowly fell into a slumber, the student proving to be a tranquilizing heat source. There was no step 4.
Bakura woke up on the sofa, alone, and covered by a blanket. This was weird.
Confused, he pushed aside his glasses momentarily to rub his eyes. Looking around, he noticed Marik sitting in the chair to his right, typing away on his laptop. He had changed too, into sleepwear.
"What time is it?" he asked.
"Almost midnight. You seemed really tired and I didn't want to wake you, but I had to do some classwork."
"Are you fucking serious? Midnight?" he was on the verge of shouting.
"Relax. You can stay here," Marik said calmly, his eyes never leaving his screen.
"It's getting into a different suit for work tomorrow that I'm worried about," he muttered, unimpressed.
"I have some office type clothing you could borrow," the blond reassured him before shutting the lid of his laptop. "Want to go to bed?"
He was exhausted, and his dress shirt felt particularly confining at the moment. "Yes. Can I borrow something to sleep in?"
"Of course."
Marik strode to his bedroom, and Bakura reluctantly followed him, leaving the warm blanket. When he entered the room, Marik was going through some drawers. The Egyptian produced a dark coloured t-shirt and typical plaid pyjama bottoms. "Will these do?"
Bakura accepted the bundle held out for him with a nod, and placed it on the bed. He began unbuttoning his shirt, a familiar scene from a few days prior. Marik occupied himself with casually observing the older man while he sat on the bed.
A low gasp reached Bakura's ears before his shirt could hit the floor. Fingers were delicately touching his newly bared left shoulder. He froze.
"What happened?" Marik asked as he trailed the pale raised lines, forming the jagged scar. His fingertip dipped into the small indent connecting the once torn flesh.
Bakura immediately stiffened. "You have things you don't want to talk about, and I have mine," he quickly dismissed, slipping on the shirt Marik had given him.
Hesitantly, Marik retreated to his bed with a somber expression, muted lavender eyes. Bakura finished changing, and crawled into bed next to the blond. They looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity to Bakura. An uncertain silence was held between them.
The paralegal was unable to ignore the longing he had been feeling for the younger man as of late, that fact only intensified by their staring match. Finally, Marik leaned over to capture his lips in a sweet kind of kiss, barely assuaging Bakura's conflicting emotions. It was soft and careful. This was really, really not good.
A muffled sound left Bakura's throat as Marik parted.
The blond turned off the light, and immediately wrapped his arms around the paralegal, effectively spooning him. "I'm getting too attached to you," the student admitted, barely audible. Why do you make it sound like a bad thing?
Bakura remained silent, uncertain of how to respond. Marik was forever contradicting himself in his mind, their shared history.
"You haven't been taken care of much, have you?" It sounded more like a statement.
"What do you mean?" The sudden remark had him on edge again.
"You're tense." Marik emphasized his point by giving him a squeeze; the older man's body barely plied to the force from being so rigid.
"Heh, I guess I haven't."
"You're such a sad person, Bakura." Another familiar scene.
"Thanks, Marik. That means a lot coming from someone who spent time in the psych ward. I must be an extra sad person." He could not hide the sarcasm in his, otherwise, composed voice.
The Egyptian sighed, "Never mind." Shit.
Instantly, Bakura regretted his words. "Sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I'm not very good at this."
"I know... How do you feel about...us?" the blond carefully asked. Like I never want it to stop. But I will…eventually.
"Hmm?" he feigned naivety.
"Nothing," Marik murmured as he began stroking Bakura's hair. He didn't push him for further conversation.
The white haired man stirred, slowly waking.
He was enveloped in warmth as the Egyptian held him. A hand was resting against the skin of his stomach, partially pushing up his shirt.
He could feel Marik's nose against the back of his neck, buried in his hair as he slept peacefully.
In the distance, he could hear his mobile ringing. Strange.
He wasn't at home. He left his phone out in the living room. He wasn't particularly tired.
With dread, he managed a glance towards Marik's alarm clock. 10:11 A.M.
Oh, fuck me.
"Marik," he spoke, a hint of urgency in his voice.
The blond merely moaned in response.
"Marik, get off me. I'm late for work."
Arms tightened around his body. "Be late longer," was the muffled reply.
"You're impossible." He rolled his eyes even if his intended target could not see it.
"Hush, wanker."
"Excuse me? That's my name for you...you twat."
"Don't you want to eat first?" Marik asked in a sleepy voice.
"Coffee is my breakfast," he replied factually.
"You don't eat in the morning?"
"Rarely. If anything, it makes me feel nauseous. I'm just not hungry until the afternoon."
"No wonder you look like an addict," the blond teased, a tired laugh accompanying his words.
Bakura groaned before forcefully pulling himself out of Marik's grip. Maybe I should just call in sick?
He made his way to the living room to retrieve his phone. No calls from work yet; only a voicemail from the library, which they seemed to be leaving him every day.
Despite Marik proving his innocence, he still didn't plan on paying. Let them harass him forever. It's not like he read much anyway when Marik was taking up most of his spare time lately.
"I knew you were his boyfriend," a female voice spoke behind him, triumphantly. Gemma.
"Nothing is going on," he replied reproachfully.
"Oh, so it's one of those things," the woman drawled as she walked by Bakura to enter the kitchen. Bitch.
Ignoring her, he returned to Marik's room to sort out his clothing for the day.
He only wished he knew what this thing was.
Nearly an hour and a half later, Bakura walked into the office. He was greeted by Natalie's questioning eyes, eyebrows raised suspiciously.
"Alarm didn't work," he mouthed as he tried to surreptitiously make his way to his own office. Everyone else was working quietly, minding their own business. He wanted it to stay that way. Slipping into his office, he closed the door behind him, and sunk into his chair.
A half-empty coffee cup sat on his desk, leaving him with slight disbelief. He would usually never forget this type of thing. Even if he had been distracted by Marik. What's getting into me?
He tried to ignore this minor distraction and turned on his computer. The unease of wearing someone else's clothes was beginning to wear off. Luckily, Marik was almost the same size, if not a bit bigger.
"You know what I just realised? I'm actually taller than you. It must be your massive hair giving off the illusion of your height," the blond said mirthfully.
Bakura shot him a frown as he buttoned the black shirt Marik had lent him.
"You look so much happier when you're asleep; no scowl ruining your pretty face."
"I feel so objectified," he replied dryly.
A knock on his door pulled him out of his memories from this morning.
"We need to get these done by next Tuesday," his co-worker spoke, dropping a stack of folders on his desk.
Bakura couldn't remember his name for the life of him, but he liked how little interaction this man forced upon him. They worked well together, maintaining their distance, even when working on similar projects.
"What are they for?"
"New labour laws are coming into play. We need to make sure our contracts are up to date." He nodded in response, used to these requests.
"George says it's imperative; so, we can temporarily ignore that lawsuit coming up."
"Okay, thanks."
The man left without another word. I need coffee.
Although he had been gone for only a short time, his mobile notified him of a new text. Probably from Marik.
Fishing the phone out of said blond's pockets, he was curious to see what it could be.
[MARIK:
Are you free Saturday night?]
I wish.
[REPLY:
Unfortunately no. I already promised someone I'd go to the pub with them.]
[SEND]
[MARIK:
Fine. But Sunday you're mine.]
Was he being possessive?
[REPLY:
Demanding much? I suppose I will be free for you then.]
[SEND]
[MARIK:
Friday too.]
He could almost hear Marik's child-like, commanding tone. A smirk tugged at his lips.
[REPLY:
Is that so? Pray tell what are we doing tomorrow?]
[SEND]
[MARIK:
I want to go to the British Museum.]