The fated day arrived when Marik returned and knocked on his door. Marik was not a normal person; he rarely texted to forewarn of his visits. Bakura wondered why as his eyes laid on him. He hated the way he forgot to breathe for a second. No kohl, wearing grey clothing, but more life in his eyes, Bakura tried to appear neutral as he assessed which blond it was.

Marik quickly caught on. "Why are you doing that? Why would you expect him?" the panic seeped into his voice, raising slightly. The blond was trying to remain calm.

"To be honest, there's an equal chance it could be either of you as of late." The older man shrugged.

Unexpectedly, Marik pushed him up against the wall leaving no room to move, eyes narrowed.

"Oh, we're back to doing this?" Bakura layered his voice with indifference to annoy Marik. The blond's scowled deepened. It was working.

"We never really stopped doing this," Marik muttered.

"Interesting."

"I still fucking hate you." The words were harsh, but the voice held no malice.

"He does, too," the paralegal pointed out.

"Stop talking about him. He's not a part of this." Marik had yet to move, keeping him trapped against the wall. Not that he was complaining.

"Technically, he already is."

"Shut up," the blond hissed.

Is this how Marik felt when he taunted him? That self-assured control? The white haired man tilted his head. "So why are you here then?"

"You know why."

"You're very confusing lately."

"I want you to forget about him," the younger man admitted, eyes softening a tad.

"I won't."

"I'm better."

"He says that, too."

"You know I am though." It was eerie how similar the two Mariks could be.

"Jealous about yourself?"

The blond point blank ignored his words and closed the gap between them. There was something different about this time. Marik's intentions felt different, were different. There was an eagerness behind his actions. Jealousy spurred on possession. Bakura felt peculiar, a new emotion surfacing. It wasn't distinctly positive or negative. He felt…satiated? Not quite.

His thoughts quickly returned to the present as the Egyptian was fluidly peeling off his clothing. They had made it to his bedroom without Bakura noticing. He decided he needed to react and return the enthusiasm, having robotically responded up to this point.

He wondered if Marik was actively aware of this. Was he allowing it? Marik detached himself from the paralegal and stared. Lavender was gazing into his soul. It was slowly becoming his new favourite colour.

"You're actually thinking about him, aren't you?" Bakura hated the way they could both read his mind with ease.

"This is really confusing for me," he confessed. He wanted to feel him.

"I don't like this."

"Did you mind before? With others?"

"No, but they mattered less to me," Marik answered. He was touched. It was like a slap to the face.

"We're going to meet up soon. I thought you should know." Whatever compelled him to try this approach was making him vulnerable. Marik had a way of making him behave erratically.

"I can't stop you, but could you tell me when you do? It makes it less… deceitful. Not that there's anything official to deceive, but you know what I mean." Maybe Marik was vulnerable, too.

"Sure… You know, it's only because he's you. Because it's you. It's not because of him. I like him for the parts that are you," he attempted to reassure the younger man. Wow. He did not like this openness.

Marik remained quiet for what felt like an eternity. It was probably only ten seconds. "I… I don't know what to say to that." That was a first. "It doesn't make me feel any better though."

"It doesn't make me feel better either."

Marik raised a brow. "Don't make this about yourself again."

Bakura gave him a questioning look. "Marik. Why do you have such a hard time accepting anything nice I say? Believe me, I don't say many."

"Do you think you're the only one struggling? I'm having more episodes since meeting you. There's a lot for me to process, but you're only thinking of your own pain. Did you ever consider or ask how I felt about it all?" The Egyptian's anger was threatening to emerge.

"That wasn't my- " Marik cut him off.

"You're so selfish, Bakura. You only think of yourself and then deny it. That's what I dislike about you." Pot calling the kettle black.

"You're right. Not sure how your feelings in particular make mine irrelevant, but sure, you're right." Why was he doing this? Why was he arguing back? Just concede for fuck's sake.

Animosity flared in the blond's eyes. They were good at this, infuriating each other. This felt normal for them, hating each other. A strange sense of calm washed over him. He hesitantly reached out to cup a tan cheek. Marik's eyes flickered to the floor, letting his anger dissipate.

"It's true though. I do like that he's you." Bakura gave it one last attempt. Helpless.

"I don't like sharing."

"I know."

Marik's hand found his wrist, lightly encircling it. "It's probably the sincerest thing anyone has said to me… and it makes me feel awful. Isn't that weird?"

"That sounds like a you problem." The other gave an amused huff like Bakura knew he would.

"Your flat looks better. How have you been?" The tone brought back memories of their dinner before Marik left for Egypt and the concerns he had shared.

"Fine. Just wine and hash." A lot of wine and hash, but he didn't need to know that.

"Good boy." Marik commented with a hint of condescension.

Bakura smirked in response, his wrist slipping from that grip without any protest. He moved his hand to rest on Marik's hip. "Tell your good boy what you want," slipped out wantonly. He stiffened. Where the fuck did that come from…

He hadn't reacted that way before. He was fairly certain Marik had called him that once in the past, and Bakura had put on an act for him. He was in deep denial back then.

The other looked equally taken aback by the sudden lapse. "That desperate, Bakura?"

Bakura had to own it if he wanted to survive this encounter. He couldn't let Marik have the upper hand. He needed to stop viewing it as a competition though. This surely wasn't healthy.

The older man's smirk returned as he put on a confident front. His index jabbed Marik on the chest and slowly slid down. The Egyptian's eyes widened before lowering his gaze to follow Bakura's path. The paralegal hooked his finger in the blond's waistband, giving a half-hearted tug. He released the material and retracted his hand. "Tell me or I won't do anything at all."

Marik was thrown off for a moment, taking a pause to assess the situation. Like always, lust had won. "Get on your knees," the blond commanded effortlessly. Why was he turned on by this? When did he ever enjoy being submissive? Always for this wanker?

He was starting to realise why, but he wasn't ready for that yet. Those thoughts didn't prevent him from sliding down to his knees though, never breaking their intense eye contact. "And?"

"Tie your hair back." Automatically, he used the hair tie he kept on his wrist and fixed his white strands, many pieces falling that were still not long enough to reach. Why are you doing this? Step -15.

Marik considered the man before him, choosing his next order wisely. "Blow me until I tell you to stop." For a second, he wondered if the other Marik had seamlessly taken over. Is this what it would be like with him?

"How?"

"Surprise me."

The white haired man's movements were deliberate. He wanted to make up for their last encounter. To be present enough for Marik to forget how little he himself could remember. He needed help.

His hands firmly gripped the back of Marik's thighs before circling around and pushing the student into a seated position on the end of the bed. "I didn't tell you to do that," the blond chastised.

"You said surprise me," his sarcasm was ever present. Marik gripped his chin forcefully. Marik would definitely be into this. Another one of their shared desires.

"That I did. I suppose you could be forgiven." Marik ran his hand through Bakura's hair, causing a few more pieces to slip out of his messy ponytail. The older man simply stared until the other spoke. "Well, are you going to do something?" Why are you so intoxicating?

Bakura reached out, tangling his hands in blond hair, pulling Marik into a kiss instinctually. Light and soft. What started as slow and languid steadily built up until Marik was on top of him on the floor, Marik's request forgotten. A rush of movements, grinding and stifled moans led to Marik grabbing for the lube bottle that he knew was in the drawer by now.

As Marik trailed his lips down his neck, a cool finger slowly pushed in. He wasn't sure what to expect; he'd never done this before nor given it any consideration. The blond distracted him by sucking against his collarbone and slowly pushing in a second finger. It didn't feel horrible, but it was certainly foreign. It wasn't until Marik began to move his digits, brushing against the right spot that he saw the appeal.

An involuntary gasp and twitch of his body gave him away. Marik stopped his licking to look down at him. That predatory look made him feel exposed. "Good boy." It could have easily been Marik doing this to him. He still didn't fully understand why he liked all of this, like a hidden Pavlovian response was activated from some deeply repressed part of him. Desperate for approval. He hated it.

Bakura looked up at Marik with glazed eyes. Lavender was soothing. Marik added a third finger. A satisfactory smirk graced his face at the moan Bakura let out. Bakura liked it. Why did they have to keep staring at each other? Assessing. Appreciating. It felt strange. Emotional. He wanted to go back to the basic, primal fucking from before.

A nudge towards the right direction, Bakura captured his lips and returned to the hurried bites, bruising holds and light scratches. Marik's free hand traced along his side as the other continued work pathetic, unintentional sounds from Bakura.

"Do it," Bakura whispered harshly, unable to wait any longer.

Marik nodded and took his time to align and push in, moaning against his neck. It was the best sound he'd heard in a while. The blond's warmth flooded him. He was so preoccupied with what Marik was doing to him, he nearly forgot that he was there, just as bothered. Neglected by him. Maybe, he was selfish.

"Wait," the older man said once Marik was fully in. It wasn't extremely painful, more like a dull throb, but it was an uncomfortable adjustment that no amount of lube could have helped. He wondered how it had felt for Marik last time. He never asked him. He never imagined he'd find himself in this position.

Hesitantly, he moved his own hips a fraction. It all felt like too much. Paralysing. He wanted it.

Marik took the cue to return to his mouth, slow sensual tongue against his own. A hand reached between them and Marik swallowed his moans. The blond began to move carefully, slick hand tentatively squeezing his cock. Bakura didn't protest, so the blond picked up his speed in both senses.

It was intense, overwhelming. Everything Marik did seemed to be for him, giving up entirely on ordering him around. Marik wasn't trying to win. That's what felt different. Why couldn't he stop keeping score? Why couldn't he fully immerse himself in the moment?

Regardless of his distracting thoughts, he was panting and moaning continuously, the body on top of him causing him to respond. His own arms were wrapped tightly around the Egyptian's shoulders, raised scars beneath his fingertips. Bliss.

As euphoric as this experience was, it also felt incredibly fucking weird. He was not one to be in a submissive position, but then again, this was Marik. He had to get out of his own head. "Fuck." Marik wouldn't know if it was an affirmation or exasperation.

Bakura's fingers started to dig into the skin of Marik's back. Ridges met his extremities as he tried to anchor himself in the present. Marik halted, clearly uncomfortable at that kind of contact, but he opted to ignore it.

"We're really fucked up."

"Yes," the blond replied impartially.

"You know." Bakura meant a thousand different things in that statement, mainly that the blond was devastating. There was reverence behind the thought though. Marik fucking Ishtar.

"I know." He knew.

Bakura frowned despite himself. "Stop mirroring me."

"Stop touching my back." Marik's hand glided across his own mark along his shoulder, a pointed message. He'd forgotten about it…

Bakura's hands lowered themselves. Marik smiled in approval but kept the praise to himself. Whether it was on purpose or he was simply hyperaware and imagining things, Bakura couldn't tell. It was revolting. "You are literally inside of me. What does it even matter?"

Marik scoffed, but Bakura could tell he was amused enough to relax. "This is how I always imagined it…except you were a lot quieter in my fantasy." Outrageous.

"I'll shut up if you start fucking again."

For all their arguing, Marik showed the same careful concern he'd been trying to keep up since they'd started. One hand was grasping snowy hair while another worked him to ecstasy. The paralegal's face was buried in the blond's neck, muffling any sound, but more importantly, wanting to feel closer. He found himself desperately clinging to Marik with every thrust.

Maybe, he could wank to this later. Maybe, he needed to stop thinking and just be. As soon as Marik's dick hit that nerve again, he did. Gradually picking up their pace, the air filled with subdued sounds until Marik said his name. That was the best sound in the world now.

Brushing of lips, undignified whines, strokes and thrusts brought Bakura to his own finish, hot liquid hitting his skin. His mind blanked for a moment from the intensity, nothing but pure white. That was a first, too.

Marik soon followed, biting his neck to stifle a groan, filling him with his own hot cum. The paralegal realised they hadn't used a condom in the rushed heat of the moment. Had they last time? It was fine, but he wasn't looking forward to the drip that he assumed would follow.

The rugburn finally made itself known along his backside. The bed was right fucking there!

Yet again, Marik unknowingly pulled him out of his reveries and held him, almost longingly. Bakura's face was pressed into the crook of the student's neck. Marik was nuzzling his forehead, leaving a light kiss while thumb softly stroked his skin. The embrace conveyed a need, a want.

Why would the blond refuse him and still do all of this? He could get used to this, but that wasn't an option. It felt like a guilt-fueled confession instead.

It was becoming apparent that after every intimate moment, Marik would take over for a while. Clearly the blond was still grappling with something. Bakura didn't ask.

They met two days later. Bakura wore a scarf, covering the marks that were scattered across his neck, mainly on the left side.

Marik appeared to be amused by this, but he said nothing, not even hinting at just how aware he was of that night in the background. Bakura had to assume he was a part of it for that level of silence.

They were walking through Hyde Park drinking coffees. It was one of those rare days that involved blue skies and dry grass. Naturally, the park was filled with people enjoying the unusual weather.

Marik was kicking a football as they walked. Bakura was smoking as always.

The blond had day-old smudged eyeliner that hadn't quite washed away the previous evening. Marik was too lazy to bother removing his makeup properly, a hint that he had taken over. He was dressed in all black again.

Likewise, Bakura was in an equally dark outfit. It was the easiest way for him to get ready lately. He didn't have to think about it; it all matched.

Finally, the blond said something. "I never knew you had a fucking praise kink of all things." Bakura choked on his coffee. There it was. Marik was waiting for the perfect moment, as always, to get under his skin. The blond bastard. As one would expect, that wasn't the end to his taunting. "I liked it."

"I figured," Bakura replied, tepid.

"Oh, was that show all for me then?"

"Shut the fuck up." His words were quick and sharp, already annoyed with the blond. Why did he ever agree to meeting him?

Satisfied with their exchange, Marik changed topics. "You ever play football? You must have. Don't want to risk rugby; it could break your delicate bones."

Like nearly every male across the country, he had in his youth. "Of course."

Marik nudged his head towards the empty grass beside them, enough space separating them from the rest of the public. Bakura inhaled the last bit of his fag before flicking it on the pavement. He followed.

Using sticks, Marik marked some makeshift goal posts for their two-person match. "Okay, no tackling too hard. First one to reach ten goals wins. Loser buys dinner." Both Mariks had a penchant for betting.

"Deal."

They faced off in the middle. Marik dropped the ball. Instantly, they both went after it, trying to gain control without tripping each other. Marik was proving to be a difficult opponent. Unlike darts, he was clearly skilled in sports. Bakura was having a hard time and already let two goals slip past him. On their third round, he quickly manoeuvred around the blond and managed to score.

Marik seemed undeterred. "Good boy," he said purposefully as he brushed past the paralegal. Startled, Bakura's breath hitched. It didn't go unnoticed as the other smirked back. Don't react. Don't give him the satisfaction.

The blond cackled. "You're so easy to rile up. No wonder he likes you." I'm actually not. It's just fucking you. "Do it again. That little scared sound, like you've been caught."

Bakura took a step back, unimpressed. "Not in the mood."

Marik took a step forward, dropping the ball. They were way too fucking close. "I don't think that label suits you well, no matter how much you wish it." The blond's hand reached up, tugging his scarf loose and revealing the bruised marbling on his alabaster skin. "There's nothing inherently good about you," the Egyptian stated factually.

"You're right."

A finger traced along his neck before stopping on a sensitive spot. "I did that one."

"I fucking knew it," Bakura whispered harshly.

"I made you moan."

"Fuck off."

"More than once. Do you like being tag-teamed?"

A sharp intake of breath from Bakura. Another step forward from Marik. "That's it. That's the sound. Scared boy."

A hard shove. "Fuck off!"

Marik cackled in response. "Bakura, come on. Don't be like that." The younger man waved a hand dismissively. "I'm clearly just fucking with you. You'd know if it was me for sure." His smile revealed a glint of canines. "I'd use more teeth."

"Marik, either stop hitting on me or do something about it. It's getting old," Bakura replied, fishing a cigarette out of his pocket. As entertaining as he could be, Marik was just as stressful, if not more, than his usual self.

"I wish I could, truly. What can I say? It's hard to resis-" the words died in the blond's throat. Marik scrunched his face, a painful truth holding his brain hostage as his usual confidence withered.

Bakura slowly blinked. Great. Marik had his insight faster than his other self. Maybe, he'd finally stop torturing them with his taunts.

Marik swore under his breath in Arabic. Said Egyptian looked very concerned about something. Finally.

"What's wrong? I thought you enjoyed this," Bakura mocked, unable to hide his derision.

"You win the match," Marik said, avoiding eye contact.

"This is really bothering you, isn't it?" Bakura shifted his stance, amused.

The other continued to tensely stare at the grass like it had personally offended him. "It wasn't supposed to become instinctual on my end…" Genuine. After weeks of wondering, the answer was right there. It just happened to be a dual discovery for them.

Bakura shamelessly pined. Marik hollowly repented. Marik underwent an existential crisis.

"Welcome to hell, Marik." It was getting lonely down here.