Revived and reposted: AU set in London. Drama ensues and they're both messes.
EDIT: found the original summary.
A/N: Forgot my original summary, notes, etc.
I decided to actually finish it this time. New chapters are written. Went through the old chapters and edited slightly. Frankly, I thought about changing a lot more but was CBA. There are probably grammatical errors and other issues that I missed, but I don't care anymore. If I did, it would take much too long to finish. If this story ever gets removed by FF, you can find it on AO3.
So without further ado:
I don't own anything except this plot.
Ryou and Bakura are sibling so I gave them a random surname.
Inspired mainly by YGOTAS but more realistic? Marik isn't as stupid.
Bakura and Yami Marik have a weird relationship. He's not called Melvin. Also less psychotic to be able to integrate in society.
Bunch of OCs to move the plot forward. It gets progressively more serious.
If you've read this years ago, I hope you still enjoy it.
Did I close the cabinet properly?
Three steps back. Check.
Wait. I put the file back in the right place, right?
Opens cabinet. Fingers quickly flip through the folders.
Yes, it's there. Everything is okay. I can just go. Stop fucking checking.
It was hard to alleviate those nagging thoughts, but meticulousness was important in this job. He only wished it would end there...
He needed that cigarette.
He could finally leave.
Phone check. Bag check. Wallet check. Phone double check. Keys check. He closed his computer, right? Yes, yes, he did. He triple checked that too and he hated himself for it.
No, nothing is holding him back from this weekend of relaxation. Less people to deal with. Less things to worry about. Just himself and his coffee and his books and his cigarettes and his own lethargy and apathy.
Things that were all his. That he could control. Things that could not and would not aggravate him. His only paradise.
He entered the lift and pressed the button that would bring him to the lobby. Only once. He felt okay with it that time.
Calmly he walked across the lobby, listening intently to the clack of his shoes across the expensive tiles. One shoe sounded slightly different. Odd. He frowned.
Exiting the building, he quickly walked over to the nearest bench and rested his bag on it.
A thought struck him. I forgot to check for that before leaving. Luckily, they were in his breast pocket.
He placed a cigarette between his lips before loosening his tie. Now he felt ready. He lit the cigarette, replaced the pack and lighter in his pocket, and proceeded to resentfully do his ritual of checking his belongings again.
He was ready.
He cracked his knuckles before moving his fingers until it felt right again.
He loathed the way it affected his body.
Sharply inhaling the toxic fumes, he felt at ease. Watching his exhaled smoke cloud brought him comfort. Ironic that he felt his existence to be bearable, his life to be alright, in the moments where he was slowly killing himself. By choice.
It was time to head to the Tube. The rush wasn't going to die down any time soon.
He stood in the small lineup at the library. He just wanted some new books for the weekend. He held his bag in one hand and three books in the other. It was a pain to organize the pile for their size differences did not augment smoothly between them. He had finally settled on deciding their order by height, even though the first book stuck out a little in width. He would have to endure this slight...discomfort.
He looked around to distract himself from the unbalanced books in his hand and the minutes slipping away from him as his watch ticked away. People were quietly shuffling around, some in suits like himself. He did unwillingly notice that the shelves in his sight were not equally interspersed. A reading area had some books scattered on the table. A part of him understood the casual appearance, its appeal, even appreciated it, but he still couldn't help but wish they were neatly pilled, accordingly.
Sighing, he took two steps forward, as the line advanced. He wanted to pull out his wallet and take out his card, but that would require setting down the books. It would be less of a hassle to simply wait till he could deposit his items on the counter. Searching his wallet would only be a ten second delay when he really thought about it.
He managed to space out for the remainder of the line.
"Next."
He deposited his uneven books on the counter and promptly retrieved his library card.
The librarian scanned the card, stared at her screen for a few moments before frowning.
"Is there a problem?" he asked, unimpressed with whatever was concerning her. Probably a computer issue that would waste more of his time...
He was so obsessed with efficiency; it even made himself feel put off by it.
"There seems to be an outstanding fee," the woman tried to explain calmly.
Tried. Was this going to be a huge issue?
"There must be an error. I owe nothing. I brought all the books back long before they were due. I'm not a slow reader," he spat out the last part with its unwanted implications.
"Well according to the system, you haven't returned a book since July, last year."
"Impossible." The insolence of this woman.
"'Anxiety in the Modern World' has not been in this library since you last took it out."
"Are you seriously trying to tell me that there's been a book missing for over a year and your system only noticed now? That sounds like a rather shoddy system to me. Unreliable and inaccurate. I returned that book July of last year." His patience was running thin as he tried to hush the shouts threatening to spill.
"Please Mr. Jagger, I do apologize for any inconvenience."
He took a deep breath and exhaled before saying anything rash. "Look. Clearly your system buggered up. The book must be somewhere in here. Can't we just move along with our lives and I promise I will replace said book that I did not lose if you don't find it by the end of the month?" he was being beyond reasonable. She better bloody agree.
"I'm sorry Mr. Jagger-"
"Bakura, please." He hated the association to that singing twat.
"Bakura, I do apologize but our system does not allow us to lend any books to those who have not paid their fees."
He could feel his eye twitch in annoyance. Literally.
"You should really consider getting a new system," he replied through clenched teeth.
She winced.
"So how much is this fee?"
She hesitated.
"Oh please do take your time, it's not like I have anywhere to be on this fine Friday night."
"Because it's been over a year-"
"Which your system didn't even notice."
"Y-yes...because of technical difficulties...the fee amounts to 68 pounds."
Did he hear that right?
"Are you mad? 68 pounds!"
"It has been 14 months-"
"I RETURNED IT IN JULY!"
"Please, Mr. Jag-... Bakura. Do not yell in the library."
Someone was going to pay for this and it wasn't going to be him.
"I am not paying such a ridiculous library fee for a mistake I did not commit!"
"But Sir, you must-"
"I'll buy a new bloody book!"
"Sir, your library card is a binding contract agreeing to any fees brought upon you. Buying a new copy will not erase the fee."
"You are barking mad."
"Please Bakura, Sir, calm down."
"Would you be calm if a fucking system screwed up and presented you with a fine of sixty-fucking-eight-bloody-quid!?"
"I-"
"No you wouldn't! Now look into your great system and fix the error. Some other wanker must have taken out the book and it didn't register," he waved his hand in a dismissive sign. His other hand ran up his forehead and through his thick white hair in frustration. He was going to get a migraine from this.
"The last status regarding this book was you borrowing it and someone placing a reserve on it."
Luckily, unlike this trollop, his mind actually functioned. "A reserve? When?"
"In July, because you had taken it out."
"Isn't it possibly that you lent the book I returned to this person and the system didn't register it?"
"Umm..."
"Well call him up! Or her." He leaned against the counter, scrutinizing the librarian until she picked up the phone. He mentally took note of the numbers she dialed, just in case, and listened to the one sided conversation.
"Hello," she spoke in a cheerful tone. "Am I speaking to a..." she squinted at the screen, "Marik Ishtar?"
What kind of bloody name was that? Then again, he wasn't one to talk with a name like Bakura...stupid fucking hippie parents.
"Ah yes. I'm calling from the London Library and..."
He blocked out this boring part of the conversation. He already knew the name and number. His mind wandered to his post-library plans. He would take the Tube at Green Park. It was about the same distance as the Piccadilly Circus stop, but with much less tourists. That was the ultimate deciding factor. Mr. Marik Ishtar better hurry up so that he could get home...or was it a girl? He wasn't familiar with this foreign name.
"Bakura?"
"Hmm?"
"Mr. Ishtar denies possessing the book."
"Well he's lying."
That seemed to throw her off. "Umm..."
"I'm not paying your ridiculous fee and you can keep these damn books," he gestured towards his pile.
"You still have a fee to a, um..."
"I'm not paying it. Marik is. 7700 900391 right?"
"Yes...wait! I mean! I cannot give out personal information-"
"Too late," he smirked. Taking his bag he headed for the London Underground.
Sitting at home, Bakura contemplated his next move. He had the man's number but that did not guarantee the money. He needed to create some sort of ruse...something to lure Marik out.
He sighed and lit a new fag.
Carelessly he deposited the pack and lighter on his coffee table. It was funny how in his anger, he found peace from his obsessive compulsive tendencies. His solace resided in rage. He was able to live only when unpleasant circumstances required his negative passions.
He was still seething from the incident and thus the lighter was not parallel to the pack of fags, nor to the coffee table's edge. And it did not bother him.
Bakura's flat was flawlessly organized and streamlined for efficiency. Everything had a place and that place was chosen for very good reasons. He did not like clutter so he ritually purged items that did not meet their purpose to the fullest. The belongings that made the cut were never to be found out of place. Having to dig around for a pair of scissors was not efficient. It was out of the question. They would always remain in the same kitchen miscellaneous drawer.
Notepads and pens did not have use in his living room. They never entered this room. They remained on the desk of his spare room that he used as an office for those tedious nights of paperwork.
His living room was purely for entertainment purposes. Notepads, and scissors, and pens were not entertaining.
Instead his living room contained the typical flat screen tv, a video game consoled that doubled as a blue ray player, a couch, the coffee table, a chair, a shelving unit where movies and video games were alphabetically ordered, some books also ordered in whatever way Bakura desired, a plant, a lamp, an ashtray and some art work on the wall. Exactly what you would expect from a single man in his mid-twenties.
The walls were a grey toned taupe that complimented the dark grey couch. The floor lamp was a metallic grey. The chair was a stark white to add contrast while the rest of the furniture was a dark chocolate brown in colour. Overall it was a neutrally pleasing room. Modern and crisp. To add some life though, Bakura did included some burgundy accent pillows in his purchases as well as the bits of colour the art work, and the dark plum plant pot offered. And the plant itself had deep green leaves of course.
Most importantly, it was clean.
Bakura strived to maintain a spotless flat.
His fingers twitched restlessly against his thigh while the other hand steadily held his cigarette.
What was he going to do about Marik? Everything depended on how gullible and foolish this person was.
The only feasible plan he could come up with was that Marik won a fake contest, but where would he go from there? Was it better to meet him out in the streets? No, that's silly. Contest winners don't meet in the streets. Maybe he could deliver it? Yes, that seemed far more doable.
He supposed now was a better time than ever. As soon as he was finished his fag.
He relished his last few smoked filled moments before having to make this dreaded phone call. He hated having to talk to other people. Bakura was not shy; he simply loathed others.
He snuffed out his cigarette in the black ashtray and pulled out his mobile.
Time to sound pleasant.
Ring one. Ring two. Ring three. Ring four. Was this wanker going to pick up? Ring five.
"Hello?" a gravelly voice answered.
It almost reminded him of nails against a chalkboard. Almost. It lacked the high pitch quality of that horrendous shudder inducing action.
"Hello. Who am I speaking to?" he figured was a good way to start.
"What do you mean 'who am I speaking to'? You're the one who called me!"
Oh joy, he got a stubborn one.
"Well are you Marik Ishtar then?" he tried to keep his irritation in check, lest it would seep into his pleasant voice.
"Yes. What do you want?"
What a rude wanker! The urge to yell profanities was growing, but Bakura had to keep up his ruse. "I'm calling to inform you that you won a contest. A 500 pound gift certificate redeemable at...any shopping centre owned by...Kaiba Corp."
"What shopping centres does Kaiba Corp own?" Slight scepticism could be heard underneath that annoying core which consisted of Marik Ishtar's unfortunate voice.
"All of them," Bakura stated factually.
"And how did I win this gift card?"
"Everyone who shopped at any of the stores was automatically entered." That was a really idiotic cover. What the hell was I thinking? No one would fall for that explanation.
"Oh, okay!"
Well fuck. There were still morons in the world.
"We just need your address so that we can courier your prize."
The fool was more than happy to give it.
Bakura lay in bed wide awake that night, which was pretty commonplace for him, except this time he had a reason. His thoughts were preoccupied with tomorrow's forthcoming events.
He would go to work, locate that bloody file, eat lunch, drown himself in coffee throughout the day with interspersed smoking breaks, and he would hop on the Tube to Marik Ishtar's home. It was located on the opposite end of London, at least opposite to his end of town.
He was unfamiliar with the area and he just knew that he would spend a good part of his day tomorrow obsessively reviewing the area online. He did not want to get lost or waste his time wandering. His plan had to be flawless.
Propping himself on his elbows, Bakura quickly fluffed his pillow and flipped it over. He did this occasionally throughout the night, settling into temporary comfort until he was too tired to notice and essentially passed out.
Faint light seeped in through his curtains, which was expected when living in a metropolitan. The light did not bother him though. Bakura found it much easier to nap in broad daylight than in the darkness. He did not understand the mechanics of himself in regards to that; it was simply how he was. Somehow the shadows kept him awake at night, if there was an opposite to photosynthesis, he would be it. Maybe there was and he just didn't know.
Without his contacts in or his glasses on, his bedroom took on an even less accurate view. Not that his vision was terrible, but it did distort the details. Dark shapes distinguished the furniture and items in his room.
A pale limb reached out from his bed sheets and strewn pillows to grasp his phone on the bed side table. A sharp contrast to the rest of his behaviour, Bakura slept in a sea of twisted sheets and disarrayed pillows. He could only find comfort in a fluffy mess, something a made up bed did not do for him. Pressing a discreet side button, the screen flashed to life and an ominous 1:32 AM glared at him. A stark reminder he faced nearly every night; he would not get enough sleep. He would face another day with a veil of fatigue.
He closed his eyes for possibly the twentieth time that night and attempted sleep. Trying to ignore those pesky numbers imprinted in his mind.
A/N: Some songs that I remember inspiring this fic:
Do I Wanna Know? and Do Me a Favour - Arctic Monkeys
Habits - Tove Lo
Tear You Apart - She Wants Revenge
Piledriver Waltz - Alex Turner