His head felt heavy. It took him a moment to realise where he was exactly. He had woken alone.
Something felt off about his vision. His peripheral view was blurred, almost prismatic. The foreign object in his eye was so dry that he could felt its weight pressing against his cornea. Fuck, my contacts!
Cursing, he lethargically rose from Marik's bed and began picking his clothing from the ground, dressing as he went. Once he reached the door, he heard voices beyond it.
"I forbid you from seeing him ever again!" Marik was talking, controlled anger.
"You don't own him, Marik. I'll do as I please."
"I'm serious, Gemma."
Not one to eavesdrop, he opened the door. Gemma smirked at his arrival, but Marik looked unnerved.
"Although I am flattered by your need to claim me for that harem you're building, I must say, Marik, you are gravely mistaken if you think you can control who I see and what I do," his sentence ended on a stern note. Pieces of last night clung to their exchange. Bakura was fucking tired and clearly unimpressed. He just wanted to go home.
Marik chose to narrow his eyes, avoiding any emotional giveaway beyond one of 'not pleased', except for when he faltered at the sight of Bakura walking towards the door. Trying to sound as unperturbed as he could muster, the blond asked, "Hey, where are you going?"
"Home."
To his own credit, Marik did not make a fuss beyond his question, letting Bakura quietly slip away.
He was folding his freshly washed clothes, paying extra attention to any creases, when he came across Marik's shirt, stripped charcoal and stormy teal. He was almost amazed that there wasn't an ounce of purple.
Since his departure, there wasn't any communication between the blond and himself. He wasn't sure if he should be worried or not. He shouldn't care. He's mad at him anyway.
A harsh knock on his door snapped him out of his musings. He was ashamed at the way his pulse suddenly sped up with anticipation. Dreadful.
Dropping the shirt, he prepared himself for the ensuing talk. He had to remain icy if he was going to have any power over their argument.
The paralegal's neutral face transformed into disappointment the moment his visitor's identity was revealed. A nearly identical image of himself, thin and pale, damp white hair clinging to his face, glared back with piercing green eyes.
"Did you forget I was coming back today?" Ryou spoke angrily. Without waiting for an invitation, he pushed passed Bakura, dragging his luggage behind him.
"I thought it was next week?"
Ryou shot back a livid look, "No. It was definitely not next week. It was never next week. I'm never leaving my only flat key with you ever again. Did you even check your phone?"
It occurred to Bakura he had not since early last night. There were probably messages from Natalie asking where he disappeared to. "Sorry. I had a lot on my mind," he answered.
Ryou ignored his apology, kicking off his shoes. "Who were you waiting for?"
"What?" he replied, confused.
"Clearly you weren't expecting me from the way your face dropped. So, who were you waiting for?"
"No one," he answered with a little too much feeling.
Ryou scrutinized him for a moment before declaring, "I'm taking a hot shower and borrowing your dry clothes. Then you're going to pay my cab fare because the only reason I had to come here and get soaked was because you forgot me at the airport."
"Sure, whatever." Ryou's bitter demands were something he had lived with for a long time, and they were mostly harmless.
As his younger brother temporarily took over his flat, Bakura searched for his mobile and did find a small pile of texts, all from Natalie and Ryou inquiring on his whereabouts. He sent a quick apology to his co-worker, and returned to his laundry.
Sighing, he picked up Marik's shirt, slowly folding the material and placing it on his bed, unsure of where to store it for the time being. He was staring at that shirt, lost in his thoughts. Was the student ever going to get his fucking shit together? Was he ever going to get his own shit together for that matter?
Would they simply, selfishly string each other along, refusing any vulnerability in their attachment? Even now, he wanted to kick himself in the ribs for questioning the idea of a relationship. Expectations are a weakness. You fucking idiot.
He put away the rest of his clothes and went to the kitchen in search of food. Not that anything appealed to him anyway, opening cupboard doors futilely. He needed a cigarette. Maybe, he should finally get started on that file for work as well.
Flicking the lighter and inhaling the fumes, Bakura found himself to be significantly calmer as his fingers flipped through the papers. So much to read…
"I feel loads better now," his darling brother announced.
He looked up from his seat to see his younger impersonator wearing that incriminating shirt. Upon noticing the strange look Bakura was giving him, Ryou spoke up, "What? Was I not supposed to wear this? I thought you left it on your bed for me."
"It's actually not my shirt," the paralegal answered.
Ryou's interest was significantly piqued as a smile twitched at the edge of his lips. "Oh? You let people in here? Since when?"
"Fuck off," he answered, eyes not leaving his papers.
"Will you ever let me know anything about your life?"
"Never."
Ryou rolled his eyes. "Why do you push me away so much? I am the only sibling you have left." Bakura did not miss the slight in Ryou's word choice.
"You were always jealous of her." He should have been disturbed by their conversation, but some things were always different with Ryou. It was like talking to the embodiment of repressed memories who resembled you a little too much.
"You've always mistaken my concern for jealousy. You seem to forget she was my sister, too." Ryou sat down next to the smoking man.
"Sometimes, I fear our conversations grow less respectful," he muttered, trying his hardest to ignore the hovering shadow near him.
"We've always been like this."
"I mean in regards to her." Go away, Ryou.
"Oh. You're misinterpreting my disdain for you with her. Tell me, who were you waiting for and who's shirt am I wearing?" His intruder changed subjects.
"You should take it off," was the only response the older man gave.
Ryou sighed in resignation; he would have to pester his brother another day.
By eight, one of them had caved.
Marik looked uncharacteristically plain as he stood in his doorway. No jewels, no kohl, just dark clothing and tousled blond strands from lack of upkeep. "Checking up on me?" Bakura questioned; his voice neutral.
Those lavender eyes appeared dull without any eyeliner. It might have been something else though. The Egyptian shook his head, entering the flat and lacing his fingers with Bakura's.
Stone-faced, the paralegal shut his door before letting himself be pulled by the student to his sofa. Legal documents were strewn on the coffee table, some sections highlighted, notes scribbled in the margins. Unlike a previous encounter, Bakura made no effort to hide the private documents.
As they settled into their spot, the blond placed a pale arm around his shoulders, never releasing his grip on the equally white hand he held. "We're going to watch a movie, okay." Marik suddenly spoke.
"Okay," he acquiesced.
Unnaturally muted purple looked up at him expectantly, and he hated himself a little more for still finding that face captivating. Shit. The calmness unnerved him. "Say something," the student cut through his thoughts.
"You're not yourself tonight." He regretted his honesty the moment it left his lips. That invitingly bare face frowned at him.
"You can't expect me to…" he trailed off, closing his eyes, resolve quavering. What is happening? Fingers slid across his cheek, re-awakening him to reality.
"You're supposed to…" Marik's own sentence died with mysterious promises. The world around them was an impenetrable fog, only aware of how close the blond's face was to his own, what his hands managed to touch.
Sliding down a waist, gripping a hip. Horizontal. No film. Fingernails grazing his scalp, or were they claws. Lips moving, his mind turned off. Intoxicating.
All he wanted was to feel close to the body that could never feel quite solid to him. A mind that needed to be assured that it was wanted. Are you satisfied now? He could feel the pressure of fingertips dripping down his chest, a leg locking him in place, soft mouth forever pliant.
"You won't leave me, will you?" Marik whispered. This wasn't fun anymore.
He drifted closer to his ear, a soft kiss on a tan jaw. "I'll try." Was it ever?
Their predicament warranted no response; Bakura quelled the irritating spark by crushing their lips together, an unhappy silence. His slender fingers slid through blonde tresses with ease, like water. He wondered how he could be so gentle when he met everything else with brashness.
He remembered warmth and deceit. He remembered work that needed to be done and the forgotten suggestion of a movie. He could not remember if he locked the office cabinet. Shifting, he ceased their brief union.
Marik did not accept his defeat, remaining by the paralegal's side. A living comfort to the left half of his body, head on his shoulder; his other side remained cold as he flipped through papers. The student pretended to be watching the movie.
Upon the film's end, Marik directed his attention back to Bakura, warm palms on his cheeks, caramel fingers splaying across icy skin. In a strange way, those exotic eyes lost their striking appearance without kohl, resembling the greying death of lavender fields. He still loved them. He shouldn't.
"When will you let me in?" the student dared to ask.
For a brief moment, the paralegal suffered indignation. He was only calmed by the fact that he was dealing with someone afflicted by insurmountable illogic. He never thought he could hold so much foolish patience. "I believe you're the one with that problem, Marik," he replied, his hands retrieving those on his face.
"It's so hard," the blond whispered, eyes falling on his lap.
He would not let sympathy overcome him. Not again. "What is?" Damn it.
"Getting close to people," Marik quietly replied.
"I know."
"No, you don't know," the student replied with certainty, barely raising his voice.
"Oh, why not? Do you think you're the only one who has problems in the world-"
"You're not mental like I am."
Bakura visibly rolled his eyes at that statement, causing Marik to sit up straighter, more defiantly. "Really? Did you really just roll your eyes at me?"
"Stop setting yourself up for failure. Yes, you have some disorders, but that doesn't mean others don't experience your difficulties. I'm certain some days are worse for you than others, but trust issues aren't that uncommon," he lectured.
"You're incredibly insensitive."
"And you're a self-fulfilling prophecy." Deep down he knew he should have kept his mouth shut.
"There's a difference, Bakura," Marik replied sternly.
"The only difference is one is minor and considered normal, and the other is extreme and considered a problem," the paralegal exasperated.
"That's not it at all!" the Egyptian shouted, shoving the white haired man roughly.
He looked up to see steely eyes glaring him down. "You don't trust me, so why should you expect that I trust you?" he countered.
"Because I need you to prove to me that I can," Marik admitted, "even if…I fail in it."
"You want quite a lot in your own favour."
Marik didn't even stir at his tarring comment. "I need someone who will always be there for me, for once."
"Why are you allowed to fuck up?" he objected.
"I always fuck up; it's a given." Marik's form slumped, making no effort to further defend himself. Me too. Silence stretched on as no reply came from Bakura, the blond staring at his lap.
"My brother stole your shirt," he suddenly informed the student. Marik looked up in confusion, his sadness fading in the background. "He's always had a problem with petty theft. Not that anyone would ever believe that," he mumbled the last part.
"Is he anything like you?" the student asked, sufficiently distracted.
"In some ways."
"He's probably hot, too." That got his attention. "He is your brother after all." Marik smiled, that arrogance returning.
"I'm not going to take that as a compliment," he replied, offended.
"Bakura."
"Shut up and hold me." He folded his arms, suppressing a grimace. Marik raised a questioning brow at the odd response.
"I'm cold," he stated.