Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ryou works, literally, the graveyard shift. He works nights as a forensic morgue technician at the funeral home in the next town over. He enjoys working at night: the solitude, the twilight, and the ability to blast music loud enough to almost wake the dead while he works— it’s intimate to him, and he runs absolutely zero risk of being judged by coworkers, because on his shift, he has none. It’s a one-man, solo show, which means that he is gloriously alone and able to do whatever the fuck he wants.

Of course, he’s good at his job. It’s not like he’s shit at it, and that’s why he hates people watching him do it. It’s just that, if he’s in the middle of sewing up a body's incisions after a 3 a.m. autopsy and he gets hungry, nobody’s about to stop him from driving through in the middle of the night for a crunchwrap supreme and eating it in the basement surrounded by corpses.

In addition to working nights as a dead body babysitter, he also has court-ordered therapy once a week. This happens on Wednesdays, smack in the middle of the day, which totally throws his sleep schedule out of whack. He’s mostly sleepless anyway, but this does interfere with him being able to stay in his apartment, so he considers it a Major Inconvenience altogether. Because it’s court-ordered, it’s not like he can skip out on it either, because the one time he did that, the police came busting down his door to make sure he was still alive. So that was some bullshit he did not want to have to deal with ever again.

His therapist is a woman who has a terrible perm and an even more terrible tendency to pretend to care deeply about his well-being. Her questions are overly invasive, with a heavy dash of judgemental. Ryou tries to reveal as little as possible about himself to her, because he hates her and doesn’t trust her at all. Actually, he isn’t quite sure he trusts anyone, really, but especially not her.

The concept of court-ordered therapy is, in itself, a total oxymoron. The purpose of therapy in general is to keep the person’s information confidential, but in this case Ryou’s therapist is required by law to send copies of his patient file to court at the end of each month. It’s literally the stupidest thing Ryou has ever heard. Ergo, he does his very best to never tell her anything about himself, because nobody, especially not a federal court of law, needs to know how he feels or what he thinks or whatever.

“Ryou,” she says. “Are you spacing out again? Did you eat today?”

“Yes,” he replies quickly, tearing his gaze from the floor to look at her. “Yes. I did eat today. Breakfast and lunch.” A lie.

“Okay,” she says. “Great.”

Most of the sessions are spent in total awkward silence. Ryou doesn’t mind, but he knows she minds a lot. Mostly because of the way that she glances around nervously, trying to think of something to say to him.

“So,” she starts, fruitlessly. “Have you looked into that group I was telling you about last week?”

“Not really, because I’m essentially nocturnal, so I feel like, why interrupt my sleep schedule to go to some book club when I could get the adequate rest I need on a Saturday morning?”

“I— I know that your job makes social gatherings inconvenient, and I respect your craft, I do, Ryou,” she says, and she obviously does not. “But I really do think that you need to reach out to people. You haven’t mentioned any friends, or family, or anybody that you’ve had a real conversation with, at all. I’m just worried about your mental health, because living an isolated life must be very hard on you.”

“No,” he says. “I prefer it.”

“The incident—” oh, christ, she can’t even call it what it properly was— the stabbing, it's not that hard, “—must have made it hard to trust people, to let them into your life.”

“I don’t know. I’ve always been like this. I guess I’m just an introvert.”

She smiles, and Ryou frowns a bit as she exhales in a small laugh. “Well, you must agree that there’s a difference between being an introvert and shutting yourself out from the world.”

“I don’t know,” he says, and glances at the clock. “I think our time’s up, though, so I guess I’ll see you next week.” Without waiting for an answer, he stands up and leaves.

Ryou lights a cigarette as soon as he exits the building. He probably averages about half a pack per day, and he knows that’s super unhealthy, but he’s actually cut down in the last year or so, just because his lung capacity has been reduced by being impaled in the chest. He flicks out his cigarette stump before hopping onto the metro streetcar, sitting down in the back without paying. Nobody bothers to check anyway, so he’s probably been avoiding metro fares for about five years now. He does have a car, but he prefers riding the metro. He likes long plane rides, long train rides, long bus rides. He knows some people who hate riding on public transportation, but he loves it. He’s only got a car because he needs it to get to work, because the city buses don’t run where the funeral home is. Riding on public transportation removes his responsibility of having to get somewhere, and he can just listen to music while staring out the window wistfully.

When he gets home, he kicks his shoes off and flops onto his bed. He's sort of hungry, but the feeling of his stomach growling is superseded by his exhaustion. He finds himself drifting off in his clothes, and when he wakes a few hours later, he's glad to see he hasn't awoken late for work. The stupid therapy sessions interrupting his sleep schedule have caused that to happen too many times.

When he's dressed in his work clothes, he gets in his car, and flicks the radio on. It's some Top 40 bullshit, but it's noise that fills the silence. He stops at the gas station to fill his tank and buy a burrito. This is his shitty life, he thinks to himself as he watches the burrito spin slowly in the gas station microwave. Work, his stupid therapy, and junk food.

Did he ever have an interesting or particularly exciting life, though? He'd occasionally go to clubs while he was in vocational school, and he'd hooked up with a few strangers to divert his attention from his burgeoning Gay Crisis at the time. Well, maybe not a few. Probably more than that. It's sort of a wonder he's never gotten any STDs.

Otherwise, though? His mother and sister died when he was ten, and immediately following that event he was deemed by his father 'old enough to take care of himself,' which really just meant, 'I'm terrible at grieving the death of half my immediate family, so I'm going to leave you, a child, by yourself in our apartment while I gallivant around Egypt looking at artefacts and burying myself in my work. Sincerely, Dad.'

Being alone comes naturally to him. He's been living on his own for over a decade now, and he's been doing absolutely fine. Having a roommate was what got him into this therapy mess in the first place, so, he's learned his lesson forever. He works better alone anyway. Solitude is a comforting blanket of reassurance that nobody is going to hurt him or fuck him over. Or kill him.

He eats his gross burrito one-handed as he drives, squinting against the setting sun. When he pulls up to his parking spot at the funeral home, he sees the funeral director locking the door as he's leaving, and, needing to avoid all social contact right now, Ryou crouches in the drivers seat so he's hidden by the wheel. His shoddy camouflage is enough to work, helped by the funeral director's unawareness of his car, and he exhales in relief as the man drives away. He knows it's a bit childish, and very weird, to be literally hiding from his employer, but he can't deal with speaking anymore today. He's emotionally and verbally drained from that idiotic therapist; plus, he's got to call his dad in the morning for their monthly awkward conversation, and it's already exhausting him just thinking about it.

The man is gone and Ryou slinks from his car, checking if he's locked it twice. One can never be too sure— or paranoid, he guesses. He pulls his hair back into a loose ponytail as he approaches the large and imposing building. It does look kind of ominous: the crepuscular reds streaking the sky behind, and the long shadow cast upon all before it. Stereotypically ominous, Ryou supposes, of a morgue. God, my life is like a bad Twilight Zone episode. It's only a matter of time I find out I'm living in a dream or have been a mannequin the whole time.

After his shift, Ryou is unusually exhausted and starving, and can barely keep his eyes open as he drives. He has to blare the university radio to keep himself alert, because at this time they're still playing the worst of EDM for the parties that stretch into the morning lecture hours. It's already almost 7 am, but Ryou knows, from his own experience, that college kids would rather be nocturnal and hedonistic than, well, anything else.

The moment he pushes the door to his apartment closed, his phone buzzes. Fuck, he'd nearly forgotten the phone call with his father. The monthly knot in his gut assumes its position while his thumb hovers over the green button on his phone. Reluctantly, he answers.

"Ryou," comes the somewhat staticky voice of his father through his phone's speaker.

"Dad," he replies sort of icily, shedding his work shirt.

"Well, how are you?" his father asks, after a moment.

"Okay."

A few moments of silence.

"Well, that's good then."

"Uh-huh."

Another extremely pregnant pause.

"We've made some progress on the dig."

"What dig?" Ryou asks, exasperated. His dad's always fucking overly vague. It's such a chore to decipher what the hell he's trying to convey.

"The one on the Sinai Peninsula, you know."

"No, I really don't," Ryou says, rolling his eyes as he steps out of his jeans and kicks them across the room. His father hasn't spoken to him since his team were on the Giza Plateau, so, no, he has no idea. "Listen, I have to go."

"Oh— that's nice, son," his father says, distantly, and then, clearly to someone else, "no, you can just put it there, and I'll catalogue it in a moment. I'm still amazed it's in such good condition."

"Okay, whatever, bye," Ryou says, lightyears past the point of hurt after years of this bullshit, and hangs up. He sits on his bed, huffing, and runs a hand through his hair.

He's not even hungry, now, and he doesn't see himself sleeping anytime in the near future, so he busies himself with watching useless Buzzfeed videos for a few hours. About halfway through some Tasty video about chicken dishes, his heavy eyelids let him know it's time to pause his stupid video and try to sleep for a few hours.

When he wakes, he smokes a cigarette almost immediately, reveling in the carcinogens filling his lungs as he thinks more about that stupid, pointless call from earlier. Every time he speaks to his dad it's such a sheer waste of his time. His dad never really bothers to give him the time of day, let alone ask him about his life, or, god forbid, discuss anything of substance. He recalls once being asked if he had a Girlfriend™. He had said no, obviously. It's not like his father is homophobic or anything, it's just, there's no reason to reveal anything about his life now after a lifetime of being emotionally stonewalled. His dad doesn't even know he got stabbed. His dad doesn't know a whole lot. Or anything, really.

He doesn't necessarily feel as if he's lying to his father, though, even a lie by omission. Ryou could probably call to mind less facts about his father than he could about his boss, and he's not even had more than a few conversations with the coroner. They're simply two different people, only bound by a forced, unenthused biological connection. Mostly he wishes his father would stop calling and trying to keep up the charade. His real family, especially in high school, were tabletop RPG figurines— the likes of which he'd lovingly paint, create, and write backstories for. From the moment his mother and sister (or, what was left of them) were pulled from the wreckage of the family car, Ryou felt he had been orphaned. His father may well have been in the car with them. Sometimes, he wishes his father had been in the car instead of his mother and Amane.

He used to write Amane letters in Heaven, right after she'd died. That stopped within a matter of months when he realized he wasn't going to get an answer back. Growing up, for Ryou, simply turned out to be a series of disappointing practices he'd have to make himself stop doing because of a sudden, stark realization of their futility.

Chapter Text

One Wednesday, Ryou's feeling particularly exhausted as he sits in his therapist's waiting room, trying not to nod off. He's arrived way too early today, thinking he'd slept through his alarm, so he'd dashed out of the house, unshowered and still dressed in his work jeans and a nasty white undershirt he'd fallen asleep in that morning.

He hastily grabs a six-year-old People magazine so he can focus his attention on literally anything semi-engaging, and right as he's flipping to some article about Casey Anthony, the door to his therapist's office block swings open. Inside walks a man, probably barely taller than Ryou, with a wild shock of almost obviously bottle-blond hair. On his arms he wears what Ryou thinks is perhaps the most gold he's ever seen in one place, bands of it shimmering almost blindingly against the nauseating floresce of the waiting room's lights.

He feels very suddenly aware of the People in his hands, and feels himself flush as he quickly closes the tabloid into his lap. He isn't exactly the poster child of adhering to masculinity in general, but he doesn't know this guy's story.

"Oh, I love that one," the guy says suddenly, pointing to Ryou's lap, revealing something of an accent. "It told me which shampoo would make my hair shiny! Kérastase." Then again, maybe Ryou had had no reason to be so nervous, he thinks to himself as the guy fluffs his shiny hair with his ring-adorned fingers.

"Oh," is all Ryou can think to say, and then his therapist opens the door between her office and the waiting room.

"Marik, hi— oh, hello, Ryou, our session's not for another hour," his therapist says, glancing down once at the magazine in his lap, then back up at him, smiling wanly at him as if she were his mother catching him watching porn. He definitely hates her now if not before.

"I know that," he says, offering her his usual deadpan delivery. "I was just early today."

"Well, okay." She then looks at the guy— Marik. "Shall we?" she says, gesturing inside, and he puppydog saunters his way inside, smiling back at her. Before he enters, though, he peeks back out, aiming his nice grin at Ryou.

"It was very nice to meet you," he says. "Maybe we'll see each other again?"

"Oh, goodness no," interrupts the therapist, before Ryou can answer back. "It would be unethical for two of my patients to have any sort of relationship. Unless you two knew each other from outside of meeting in this office. Well, anyway. Come on, Marik," she says, tactfully leading him into her office and closing the door.

He ends up dozing off in the chair, and wakes with a start when the People slips off his lap and onto the floor with a papery clatter. As he's slightly disoriented and clumsily picking the magazine off the floor, he jumps in his seat again as the door to the therapist's office opens.

"See you next week, thank you!" the guy from before— what was his name again?— thanks the doctor. Catching Ryou's eye, his eyebrows raise a bit as he smiles softly at him, waving a little. Ryou, dumbfoundedly, just barely nods in response.

"Ready?" the therapist says then, snapping Ryou from his reverie. He stands wordlessly, leaving the tabloid on the coffee table, and follows her inside.

Ryou comes to consciousness in his room.

He's sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall. Panicked, he turns to look at his alarm clock on the bedside. It's 3:51 am, and his work clothes are discarded on the bed, neatly enough.

He should be at work still, what the fuck. He's never dissociated and driven his car before, unless he's hitched a ride with someone? He gets up to peer out the window at the parking lot of his apartment building, and is somewhat relieved to see his car in its spot.

Glancing down at himself, he curses, because he's stripped down to his underwear, covered in angry red slashes. It's frequent that he'll self-harm while dissociating, but it's never any easier to discover after he's come to consciousness. It’s not like he’s particularly want to hurt himself in waking consciousness— he’s more afraid of pain than anything else— he always just seems to find himself already hurt once he’s present again.

Some of his cuts are still slowly oozing blood, but he hasn't really got time to deal with them. He's more concerned about whatever state he'd left the morgue in while dissociating, so he gingerly redresses in his work clothes, shoves his feet into his shoes, and runs out to his car.

Once he's back at work, he grimaces, nervous to inspect the potential damage. He wonders what time he'd left, what time he'd started dissociating. He began to dissociate only after he'd gotten stabbed; before that, he hadn't known how lucky he was to be truly present all the time.

In the morgue basement, he's relieved to see that no real damage was done— it just looks as if he'd gone for food in the middle of an autopsy. His instruments are all in their proper places on the tray, the incisions on the body half-sewn. And then, stepping closer to the body, he sees perhaps the reason why he'd dissociated in the first place.

The body's got three stab wounds, all within the torso area, and Ryou swallows uncomfortably. Usually he's pretty good about compartmentalizing his stabbing. Other times, not so much. He guesses that tonight was one of those times.

He pulls a fresh pair of latex gloves onto his hands, sighing, unable to tear his gaze away from the stab wounds. With a bony, gloved finger, he traces the one that's close to the body's heart; it's eerily close to where his own scar lies. A jolt of something runs through him, and he bites down on his tongue, trying to stay present.

He's able to finish the autopsy in record time, completely detaching himself from the situation as he types coronary penetration by blade, approx. 3 inches in width into the "cause of death" field in the body's file. He takes samples, puts them in jars for the coroner to come inspect in the morning, fingerprints the body, and cleans his instruments.

As he leaves work, the sun is beginning to rise. He would usually be getting breakfast and going to bed right now, but he's nauseous and restless. He's sort of worried, because when he's at work, in addition to assisting with basic autopsy duties, he's also on call for any dead bodies to go and pick up during the night. That rarely ever happens— he's probably only been called out about three or four times during the couple of years he's worked at his job— but still, it would be his shitty luck to not answer a rare call while he was dissociating.

He drives around, trying not to let his mind wander. He lives in the city, and his work is in the next town over, which is small, and pretty rural in some places. He knows a lot of people by name there, went to high school with a few of them, the people who left the city after graduation to settle down. Ryou feels like sediment on an ocean floor— as long as there's even the slightest of movement in his water, he never settles.

His eyes feel sore and heavy now; the sun has risen fully and his internal clock screams that it's time to sleep now. Since he's pretty far from civilization still, he pulls his car to the side of the road and leans his seat back to sleep for a while. He doesn't want to take any chances falling asleep on the road.

He wakes sharply to the sound of knuckles gently rapping on his window. As he rolls his window down he sees it's Jounouchi, who was in his graduating class, and is now a cop. "Excuse me," he says, and then, with an air of recognition, "oh, hey, Bakura."

"Hi," he says a bit warily, suppressing a yawn.

"How's it going?" Jou asks, pretty awkwardly.

"Um," Ryou says. "Okay. What's going on?"

"Oh— right," Jou laughs, sounding a little embarrassed. "I was gonna tell you that you can't park and sleep on a public road. It's okay though, I won't ticket you."

"Oh," says Ryou. "Thanks."

"Anytime," Jou replies, with genuine compassion in his eyes. Ryou did the preliminary autopsy on Jou's shitty dad, whose liver had given out to cirrhosis last year. Jou didn't want to see the report or hold a funeral for him, and Ryou didn't push or question it, even when the funeral director had tried to insist on a service. Now, Jou, perpetually grateful, believes them to be friends, and perhaps they would be, were Ryou more adept at socializing.

"Hey," Jou says, "listen, you must be exhausted. If you ever wanna crash at my place, you're welcome anytime. And Shizuka can cook, too, if you need."

Ryou forces a smile. He appreciates Jou's kindness, but he knows he'd be imposing on him and his sister. They're a humble family of two, and Jounouchi works double shifts so Shizuka can keep going to university. "No, it's really okay. But thank you, seriously," he says, and starts his engine. "And thanks for not ticketing me."

"Of course, man," Jou says, stepping away from Ryou's car, with friendly worry clouding his eyes as he smiles back. "Take care, okay?"

Ryou waves in thanks as he rolls his window back up, and takes off down the road. In the rearview mirror, he can see Jounouchi standing there on the empty road, watching him drive away.

Chapter Text

Ryou finds he does his best work whilst blaring Young Thug. Something about the delivery of his rhymes is very intense and, for Ryou, it drives complete concentration. "I just bought a Bentley and a bitch came with it" rattling the metal workstations against the tile just spurs him on to be that much more precise, that much more attentive, that much more thorough.

And thorough he is, as he carefully, expertly, works his incisions up the abdomen of an elderly woman. It was natural causes, but there was some definite hard stress on her stomach lining and intestinal walls. Probably caused her a lot of pain in life. Maybe it’s better this way, Ryou thinks. No more chronic pain to have to deal with.

He finishes early, with an hour and a half still left on his shift, so he does some deep cataloguing of the funeral director’s backlogged files, and a full bleach scrub of the basement. By the time he’s done cleaning, his playlist has long finished, and from a glance at his phone it’s already quarter to eight in the morning. Outside, he’s greeted with the harshness of the sun, and it takes his eyes more than a few moments to adjust to the bright outside world.

Ryou drives through his funeral home's suburban surroundings, not quite wanting to face the freeway yet. Domino's a strange bull's eye-shaped county, with the city right smack in the middle, and small pockets of quiet hamlets and commuter towns encircling it with a proverbial throttle-grip. Ryou's family lived in a relatively nice house in this area, before the accident, but now he associates this area with work, the suffocating questions and looks of his old neighbors, and the people he went to school with who never got, or wanted, the chance to move into the city after graduation.

In Jou's case, it was his dead father's shoddy apartment out here that anchored him and his sister in this town. Ryou knows Jou would probably prefer to move into the city, or maybe even just as far away from Domino as humanly possible, but moving isn't an option for Jou and Shizuka until she finishes university, and they save up enough money to get out. Ryou wishes he could remember her major; he knows Jou had proudly told him what it was, once, but he can't place it now.

He pulls up in front of Jou's building, peering up at the smog-grey, crumbling stucco its outsides are slathered with. Even if he did know which door number they live at, Ryou can't muster up a shred of nuts to go and knock on whichever door that would be. There's an anxious, lead-y feeling in his chest, preventing him from feeling a longing for human connection. That feeling left him over a decade ago. Human interaction scares him shitless now, which is probably the main reason he went into the field he's in now. He works in the dark, alone, surrounded by the dead— the only people who can't force him into a conversation. Without fail, he uses the self-checkout at the store, and avoids eye contact with anyone unnecessary. It's just the way he's trained himself to be, for such a long time, that it seems unfathomable to him now for him to change his ways. Especially since the last time he'd tried to reach out for any semblance of communal reciprocity, it ended in a near-death experience.

Sighing, he pulls back onto the road and merges onto the highway. He shouldn't have wasted so much time, because now he's coming into the city with all the commuter traffic, and of course there's an accident. It takes a while, but once he does manage to pass the accident, he sees that it's a car that's engulfed in flames, bright orange licking at the asphalt and metal wreckage. It's an image that stays with him even when he gets into the city and makes a pit stop at the convenience store for a few groceries.

At home, he heats a tin of soup on the stove, letting a lit cigarette dangle from his lips. He's got therapy in a little while, so even though his eyes are burning with exhaustion, he forces himself to stay awake enough to eat something before he has to leave again. He can’t even really finish half of his thin, nasty vegetable broth, and just sticks the rest in the fridge. He knows he’ll never eat the rest of it, but it feels better than just dumping it down the bin. He pops a few caffeine pills instead, and leaves for his appointment.

He realizes too late that he's left too early, so he's fifteen minutes early to his session. He hates that; the less time he can spend in this shitty, depressing office building, the better. As he's pushing the door to her waiting room open, he almost bumps into someone coming out of it.

"Sorry," the guy says, and then, "oh, hi!"

It's that weird flamboyant guy from the other week. Ryou probably shouldn't be surprised— his therapist tends to schedule patients like clockwork, the same-time-next-week method. "Uh, hey," he replies back without much thought. He's forgotten the guy's name already. The guy just smiles at him, with kind, bright eyes as he passes through the threshold and down the hallway. Ryou stares at him as he leaves, those gold bands scintillating with each step.

He has another underwhelming, uneventful session, and goes home exhausted. He can barely keep his eyes open on the streetcar, and nearly misses his stop. Once he's inside his flat, he beelines for his bed and falls asleep in his clothes.

He dreams of Wraith. It's common he'll have dreams about him; he invades Ryou's thoughts, both waking and asleep, about a hundred times a day. In this dream, he lights Ryou's car on fire, smirking back at him in that horrible way. Ryou could remember it forever, and it's perfectly replicated in all the dreams: condescending, bemused, scheming. Ryou tries to dive into the fire to save his car, but it spits him back out, knocking him back onto hard concrete. Ryou feels his blood coursing around in his chest, threatening to spill out, when through the leaping inferno of metal and smoke, two bright, piercing grey eyes stare back at him through the firestorm. Wraith is no longer so much of a concern to him as he stares back into them with an irregular sense of longing.

For weeks, he seems to be consistently running into that guy at therapy.

One week, the guy gives him a little wave as they pass each other in the hallway. The next, he bumps into Ryou in the lift. Another time, he tries to talk to Ryou in the mens' restroom, at the urinals no less. Ryou keeps his head down and tries not to engage with him— what his therapist said about it being unethical for them to have any sort of relationship rings in his mind every time he sees the guy. It's cliché, but he really doesn't want any trouble, in any capacity.

One Wednesday, as Ryou's leaving his session, the guy is leaning against the wall in the hall outside her waiting room. Didn't this dude have his session an hour before Ryou's? He lights up as soon as he sees Ryou.

"Hey!" he says, standing up off the wall. "Your name is Ryou, right?"

"I— what's going on?" Ryou asks, incredulous. He's halfway suspecting some kind of weird social trap.

"You wanna go get some coffee or something?" the guy asks casually, and Ryou is a little more than freaked out.

"I— no? Listen, uh... what's your name again?"

"Marik," Marik answers, hinging on Ryou's every word.

"Look, uh, Marik," Ryou says, carefully. "You seem cool and all, but. She said it's unethical for us to, y'know. I dunno, be friends or whatever."

Marik's face is crestfallen, and he nods. "I know. Sorry, I—" he laughs, then, and it sounds strange. "I don't really know why I keep trying to talk to you. Sorry, I overstepped."

"It's okay," says Ryou, relieved that the situation's escalated some. "Really. Maybe in another life or something."

Marik looks at him, a little askew. "Hmm. Maybe." He runs a hand through his shiny, soft-looking hair. "Well, have a good one," he smiles wanly, walking away.

Ryou, in a few ways, feels a bit bad for him. He's unable to sympathize, but Marik probably just wanted to commiserate with a fellow patient or form a new connection. Although, he supposes, he doesn't even really know this guy Marik at all, except the limited clues he's gotten from passing interactions. Which is to say: not much, at all, and in that case, he considers the fact that he can't really afford to feel sorry for him; he's got plenty of his own shit to think about anyway.

A few days later, he has a flashback dream about Wraith. Those are relatively common occurrences, but he can never seem to get used to how horrifying they are. They shake him to his very core.

Wraith is holding his switchblade, dangling it back and forth in front of Ryou's face, almost hypnotically. Ryou tries to get away, tries to shove him off of his body, but he's pinned against the wall by his front door. He's expecting Wraith to be the one restraining him, but when he looks to the side, it's Marik pinning him to the wall with his strong, decorated arms. He's struggling hard against Marik's grip, looking to Wraith in fear. Wraith goes in to stab him, but instead of his chest, he gets the blade right between the eyes.

He awakes with a splitting headache— an eleven on a one-to-ten scale. Wincing with nausea, he gets up off the bed to stumble to his en-suite, and find some max-strength paracetamol. Even when he takes five or six tablets, the ache just gets worse. The pain is making him dizzy now; he splashes cool water on his face and chugs an entire bottle of water, trying everything he can think of to stop the pain. The only thing he can possibly try now is getting fresh air, and he lurches, disoriented, onto his floor's outdoor hallway-balcony. Almost immediately, the headache subsides.

Still shaken from his headache, plus the dream he's just startled out of, he stands out on the landing and leans on the railing for a few hours, trying not to think about anything at all.

The next Wednesday, Ryou sits in the waiting room checking his emails on his phone. Her office door swings open and Marik exits, which is to be expected. Ryou makes an effort to stare at his phone with mock-concentration, trying not to prompt conversation at all. But, instead of leaving the waiting room, Marik sits in a chair across the room. Ryou can feel Marik's eyes watching him, and he's both bewildered and anxious. The therapist is late opening the door for his appointment, and as the minutes stretch on, Marik's gaze never leaves him once. What the fuck?

Finally, she opens her door, and Ryou rushes in. He's never been so eager to begin a session with her. She drones on with the same old questions, but he's still perplexed and thinking about Marik just staring at him like that. Did he do something to upset Marik? Was Marik planning something malicious? Just where the hell does he get off staring people down like that?

He's relieved to see, upon exiting her office, that Marik is no longer anywhere to be seen. He's pushing a cigarette between his lips through fumbling hands, trying to take the edge off his paranoia. As he steps out into the hallway, though, the cigarette tumbles from his mouth as he's suddenly grabbed by the arm and dragged to the mens' restroom, only to be pressed into a stall. He struggles, feeling only carnal, flight-response panic, and, eerily echoing his dream, it's Marik pinning him to the stall.

"I had to see you again!" Marik blurts, and against the vice grip of Marik's hands to his shoulders, pinning him to the stall, Ryou's trying not to have a panic attack. "You're very pretty," Marik says, quieter this time, though not at all bashful.

"I... What? ...You know I'm not a girl, right?" Ryou manages, offput by the identifier. He knows he's objectively good-looking, in some ways, but pretty? Christ.

"Of course I know that," Marik says, with a laugh that breathes a hint of duh. And then he plants his lips on Ryou's.

All that goes through Ryou's head for the next good minute is what the fuck?, but he'd be lying if he said Marik wasn't also attractive, and he's no stranger to random hookups, plus he's running off the excess adrenaline that's coursing through his blood, so he lets himself be kissed, and now he's kissing back. He's got those old cuts still scabbed over, under his sweater, but he doesn't plan on getting naked anyway— and besides, he thinks as Marik leads him into the stall he'd been pinned against, Marik should know that since he literally met him in a therapist's office, that Ryou was bound to be at least a little fucked up.

Ryou uses what little initiative he can muster in his head to press his hips to Marik's, kissing harder. He can feel that Marik's already hard; that's good. That means he doesn't have to do much work now. With a drag of his hand across Marik's clothed cock, he sinks to his knees on the nasty bathroom tile and gets to work unbuttoning.

"Oh," Marik says, in a tone that lets Ryou know he might come any second if he doesn't hold the fuck on. Ryou brings Marik's dick, hard and heavy, into his mouth and moans quietly. He hasn't sucked dick in a long while, and he's a little unpracticed at containing his excitement. As he tongues at Marik's foreskin, Marik lets out the goddamn loudest shout he's ever heard during sex.

"Shh," he warns, pulling back for a moment, and squeezes Marik's cock, making Marik whine and grab two giant fistfuls of his greasy white hair. It reminds him that his dark roots are taking over the top of his head, and he'll need to touch them up soon.

"I, oh, please—" Marik manages, "I'm— oh—!" He cries out as Ryou swallows him back down, hollowing his cheeks as he sucks, and he tightens his grip on Ryou's hair so hard that Ryou is briefly afraid that his hair will come out.

And then, the door to the bathroom opens, and Ryou pulls off quickly to stand and slide the latch on the door closed. Marik's chest is still heaving, his eyes burning brightly with lust, and Ryou kisses him to shut him up, in case he cries out again or something.

Some dude's peeing in the urinal, and Ryou hopes to fuck that he doesn't turn around and notices two pairs of feet in the stall behind him. Marik's shaking like a leaf, his dick still out, dripping between them. The guy takes forever to finish up, but luckily he's oblivious enough to not have noticed them. The second the guy leaves and the door closes behind him, Ryou takes Marik's cock into his hand and strokes it, and Marik goes fucking nuts, whimpering into Ryou's mouth and grabbing at his arms. Underneath the sweater sleeves his scabs ache as Marik paws at him, but he keeps going, speeding his hand so they can get this over with quickly and Ryou can go home and jerk off to this in private.

When Ryou feels Marik shaking again, he slips his bony hand up under Marik's shirt and strums over his nipple with a thumb. It's then that Marik finally blows his load, twitching against the bathroom wall and kissing Ryou sloppily. When he's done, Ryou pulls away, brushes away the drool that's accumulated around his chin, and wipes Marik's jizz on a bit of toilet paper.

"Thank you," Marik says breathlessly, and Ryou laughs a little, because nobody he's ever hooked up with has ever thanked him.

"Yeah," he says, "anytime." He reaches up to fix his hair a little, straightens his sweater, heads for the stall door.

"Aren't you still..." Marik asks suddenly, pointing at Ryou's badly-concealed boner. "Don't you want me to help you, too?"

"Uh," Ryou says, stupidly. He was honestly just going to go home, maybe jerk off, maybe eat something, definitely sleep. "I, sure?" Generally with sex, he's eager to please his partner and just get out of there. This is weird to him now, especially because he sort of doesn't want to leave.

"Come here," Marik says, gently, beckoning to him with an outstretched hand. He stalls for a moment, then walks towards Marik, who pulls him closer and starts kissing at his neck. Ryou feels himself practically melting, and lets out a soft sigh as Marik sets a hand at the small of his back. As Marik grabs him through his pants, his head dips forward and his eyes slide shut. There's something particularly slutty and totally idiotic about having sex in a public bathroom, but Ryou supposes the most fitting place for bathroom sex for him would be his goddamn therapist's building, and hooking up with another of her patients is just the stupid, irresponsible icing on the cake.

His thoughts are quickly blitzed like a smoothie in a blender when Marik takes hold of his now-exposed cock and starts jerking him off, kissing up his neck, his jaw, his throat. The hand on the small of his back travels down to grab at his ass and pull him closer, and he can't help but let out a quiet moan. He suddenly wants more, wants to let this guy do things to him— fuck him, maybe— he's never let his sexual partners pleasure him before, he's always been nervous of relinquishing control to people, always the one to make people come and then scurry away, but he's panting raggedly now, his blunt nails scrabbling at Marik's back, crying out, oh my god, fuck, fuck, and then he's coming, tensing against Marik as he's given a hickey.

With wobbly legs, Ryou tucks his dick back in his pants and opens the stall door. They clean up next to each other at the sink, and Ryou feels suddenly aware of how gross he feels— he's damp with sweat under his dumb cardigan thing, his stringy hair sticking to his forehead in places, and the scabby cuts are stuck to the wool in some places. Not to mention, he's noticing as he surveys himself in the mirror, he's got both of their come on the front of his sweater. Whatever, at least the sweater's white, so as long as nobody looks too closely (nobody really does, thankfully) he'll be fine getting home. The hickey can basically be hid by his hair; it's past his shoulders now, because he's kind of too lazy to maintain it properly. Honestly, if someone sees it, who cares. Ryou is uncharacteristically apathetic right now about public displays of his less-than-savory sex life.

"Well," he says, his own voice suddenly foreign to him. "Thank you," he echoes, not really finding a more appropriate way of finalizing this weird hookup.

"Yeah, anytime," Marik volleys back at him with a little smirk, fixing the smudged kohl around his eyes.

"Uh, so I guess I will see you around," says Ryou, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets and glancing at Marik in the mirror.

Marik's bright eyes meet his dull, tired grey ones in the reflection, and it startles him a bit. "Do you mean it?" he breaks into a genuine smile.

Ryou laughs awkwardly. "I mean, yeah," he says, pointing behind him with a thumb. "We both see the doctor, so."

"We should meet somewhere else," Marik says, a bit suddenly.

Ryou's stomach lurches. Oh, no. This dude's caught feelings already. This is why he never sticks around, fuck. "Uh... I don't know—"

"Here," Marik says suddenly, turning around, "what is your phone number?" With this he pulls out a... fucking flip phone? With about thirty-ish charms strung round each other, dangling heavily and unnecessarily from the archaic hunk of plastic Marik's currently flipping open. Ryou is momentarily taken so off guard that he stands with his mouth agape before giving Marik his number. He sort of didn't mean to, actually, but what the fuck is this guy's deal?

"Great," he smiles down at his phone, adding Ryou's name in with the goddamn number keypad, cycling though the letters, 777-999-666-88, for god's sake, "Then I will text you." Does this douchebag's phone even have a text plan? Does it even still work?

"Okay," Ryou feels himself saying, and he's a bit scared to realize he's kind of thrilled. Whatever, he guesses, this guy was good anyway, he might well be a good lay further on down the line, if Ryou keeps texting him on that stupid flip phone. That's probably why Ryou's not running away right now.

When Ryou leaves the building, he flicks a cigarette into his mouth out of habit, but decides against it when his stomach screams at him for some food. He's supposed to show up for work in about 6 hours, and he should really get some sleep before then, but he pops into a McDonalds anyway. The guy at the register stares him up and down— from the cigarette tucked behind his ear to his ratty, unkempt hair to the obvious hickey to the definite come stains on his sweater— but he decides he sincerely doesn't give a shit, and orders enough food for three people.

Chapter Text

Ryou's pulling into the parking lot at work when his phone vibrates. He kills the engine and checks who it's from— a number that isn't in his contacts (he really doesn't have many, really). And then, he reads the message.

Hi Ryou!! It's me Marik! I was wondering if you would like to get lunch sometime :-)

Ryou is, surprisingly, not irritated by this message. He almost catches himself smiling as he reads it, actually, just because it's so fucking funny, imagining Marik banging his fingers away on that numerical keypad, texting him. He replies, hi marik. i dont really eat lunch. how about breakfast?

He sits in his car for a moment, squinting against the setting sun. Why is he so weirdly intrigued this Marik person? Maybe it's just because his life is so goddamn boring and Marik is the most interesting thing to have tumbled into it in a long while. Or maybe it's him finally trying to reach out and socialize, like his therapist suggested. Or maybe it's just him finally going fucking crazy.

The reply is swift: Yes sure!!! Have you ever been to that pancake brunsh place in the city

brunch? haha thats fine, Ryou corrects, and then immediately curses aloud at himself, because when the fuck is the last time he ever used 'haha' in a text? When's the last time he even laughed in real life? Maybe in the men's restroom with Marik, where all this idiotic bullshit began.

Lol yes sorry brunch!!!! replies Marik, his exclamation point usage growing at an alarming rate. Are you free tomorrow? I can meet at 8?

He agrees to meet Marik at eight the next morning, although it is pretty short notice, and he'll be in his nasty work clothes. The fact that Ryou is concerned about showing up in his post-autopsy attire only hammers in the fact that they know next to nothing about each other. He doesn't even know the dude's last name. What is he even doing? Just because he came for the first time in front of someone else doesn't mean he has to go on a fucking date with them. And yet here he is, intrigued, frighteningly wanting to know everything about this near-stranger's life. He wants to see Marik's eyes again, brimming with an excitement that Ryou hasn't known since he was a kid. He wants to see Marik's lips as they quirk upwards into a smile, and all that ostentatious gold he wears. He wants so much, and it's so gay.

He has a pretty normal shift, and now it's Saturday morning, so he's glad to be rid of work for the weekend. He barely makes it into Domino by eight with all the traffic coming in from the surrounding towns, and when he finally pulls into the parking lot of the restaurant, he surveys himself in the mirror. It occurs to him, now more than ever, that he's super gross after a full night of work, and Marik will probably be freshfaced and ready for the day to begin. His stomach flips anxiously, and for a brief moment he considers bailing and hiding in his apartment, but he concludes that he's already here anyway, and straightens his hair out a bit before hopping out of his car.

Marik's waiting outside the place, practically bouncing on his toes as he scans for Ryou across the parking lot. Ryou gives a small wave and a weak smile as Marik's eyes light up.

"Hey!" Marik says, grinning from ear to ear. Ryou's caught off guard as he's nearly tackled into Marik's hug. "Wow, you look exhausted," comes Marik's laugh when he pulls back to survey Ryou. "Did you not sleep last night?"

"I, actually, uh," Ryou mumbles. "I work nights. So, no, I did not."

"Whaaaat, really, so you mean your job is during the night? Wow, where do you work?" Marik asks curiously as they make their way inside. The hostess grabs two menus for them and leads them to a booth near the back of the restaurant. They've come at a good time, because it's that point in the morning where the restaurant is beginning to fill with people, but not quite at capacity; no forty minute wait time yet.

"I work at a funeral home in the next town over," Ryou says, settling his bony ass into the booth. "I'm a forensic morgue technician. I do the preliminary autopsy on a body after it's died. Then the coroner comes in in the morning to use his medical degree to basically make sure I've done my job correctly. I act as kind of like, an aid to the coroner, if that makes sense."

Marik listens on, eyes wide as saucers, and Ryou realizes he kind of launched into a spiel about dead bodies as if he were talking about the weather. He forgets, sometimes, that normal people don't interface with the deceased as much as he does. "Wow," Marik says, looking enrapt, "it sounds like hard work! You must be really smart." He doesn't doesn't sound patronizing at all, and Ryou is sort of taken aback at how... earnest this guy is.

"Uh," he says, rather eloquently. "Thank you?" Their waitress serves them coffee, and he sips from his mug to have an excuse for his silence. He drinks his own coffee black, and just as he'd suspected, he sees Marik dumping cream and sugar into his mug like he's auditioning for the part of a cavity. "So, uh," he tries, "do you work?"

"Part time!" Marik flashes that weirdly spellcasting smile at him. "I work at Starbucks and I'm also in school. I'm studying to be a veterinarian," he explains. "School is so fun! I had never gone before coming to Domino, I love learning about everything."

"Wait," Ryou says, furrowing his brow. "You didn't go to school? How old are you?"

"Twenty! But no, I didn't," Marik says casually. "I'm from Egypt. My family and I were a faction of Tombkeepers. We never left the tombs, we were never allowed to."

Why does the name 'Tombkeepers' sound familiar to Ryou? It evokes the feeling of being in middle school again— and then it fucking clicks. Ryou looks right at Marik and tries to study his features, racking his own brain, trying to envision the photo of those siblings from the newspaper. God, it must have been seven, maybe eight years ago. "Okay, wait, you mean, you're one of those three kids they found underground? The Tombkeepers?"

"How did you know!"

"I had read about it in the news," Ryou says with incredulity, and he's beginning to feel like this is all some sort of fever dream. "Back when I was in school. It was a huge news story— about how these three siblings were found living in a tomb in Egypt. That was you? Have you been here this whole time?"

"Wow!" Marik laughs, "I didn't know we were in the news!" He takes another sip of coffee. "When they found us they had us hosted over here on an asylum visa, until we could get permanent residency. We didn't speak the language, we had to take so many classes. I didn't even know there were other languages. But yes, we've been here— except Isis, my sister, she's recently gone back to Egypt— to the real Egypt. I was thirteen when I got here," Marik recalls, practically starry-eyed. "There was so much I had never seen, so much I didn't know. It's amazing to me even now, some of the things that exist."

Their waitress comes to take their order then, and it occurs to Ryou that he hasn't even opened his menu to look. He orders some pancake plate he probably won't finish and hands his menu to her.

It's awkward, the silence, as they wait for their food. Ryou finds himself gulping his coffee down, that previous feeling of wanting to bolt creeping back in. Marik keeps making eyes at Ryou over the rim of his mug, and it's half weird and half dick-stirring.

"You never even asked if I was gay," Ryou blurts, immediately regretting bringing it up. The words are out there now, though, hanging stale in the air between them. "You can't tell me it was just, like, pure gaydar. That doesn't exist."

"It really does," Marik laughs. "I can always tell with someone." Ryou quirks an eyebrow at him. "And anyway, I've turned guys before. It's never intimidating. Nobody underground said anything about it— good or bad— so you can really imagine my surprise when I got here and people got weird about it."

"I guess," Ryou considers. "So you just came over and had a harem of boyfriends, then?"

"And girlfriends, come on," Marik says, bemused. "Nobody's one hundred percent anything, right?"

"I'd hate to disagree with you before the food arrives, but I'm pretty uninterested in non-dude situations," Ryou says, finishing the dregs of his coffee.

"What!" Marik barks laughter. "Well, you're the first person who's ever said that to me."

"Well, I don't think I, or anyone else, for that matter, really talks about this shit."

"What shit," Marik grins lopsidedly, "I think love is beautiful."

"Love? God. I don't think I know what that feels like."

Marik frowns, then. "That's horrible. Your family, though, they must love you so much."

Ryou shrugs. "I don't have a family."

That was a horrible thing to bring up, though, and Ryou slaps himself mentally for it. It comes out terribly awkwardly and sours the whole mood of their table. Marik just looks sadly at him, and Ryou's got an itching feeling of discomfort about him. Like when his—their— therapist looks at him.

"Pancake special," interjects the server. Ryou'd almost forgotten he'd ordered that, until Marik claims the other plate, which is something the server calls a Scrambled Fry-Up. The food's good but they all have horrible names. The price one pays to eat at this place.

Marik digs into his meal, and it's like he hasn't eaten in a week. Ryou nauseously picks at his own pancake mess, regretting being so openly pathetic about his family, or lack thereof. Especially this soon in... whatever this is. He's barely met the guy and already they're having a conversation Ryou had, up until now, tactfully avoided through just having one-night stands.

"I'm sorry," Ryou says then, surprising himself. "I didn't mean to create a shitty mood by saying that. I... I just don't know what topics are even appropriate. I never do this."

Marik smiles reassuringly. "It's fine, really. Sometimes I forget not all families are alike. I'm just really lucky to have my brother and sister." And then, his entire demeanor changing, he offers his egg-sausage-whateverelse-loaded fork to Ryou. "Here, taste."

Perplexed, but too surprised to react opposite to his default, Ryou leans over the table to catch Marik's fork in his mouth. It's a lot of flavors at once, and just tastes a bit like the filling of an Egg McMuffin. "Thank you," Ryou mumbles around the maelstrom of food in his mouth. Marik laughs— it's an easy, comfortable laugh. Ryou lets him eat pancakes off his own fork, and doesn't even worry about people watching. This is a weird moment of tranquility for him — one that doesn't come easily to him at all, since he's usually crawling with anxious, self-conscious feelings.

"I got it," Marik says when the check comes, and he seems to be almost peacocking when he slips his card to the server. Ryou is almost bemused; he usually feels it difficult to be around other people, and especially extroverts, which Marik so clearly is. Marik's air doesn't drain the energy from him, even after a full night's work.

"Do you want to, ah, hang out some more? Or, are you tired?" Marik asks him.

Ryou considers the situation. His personality says: yes, I'm going home, goodbye, don't talk to me anymore, my social quota for the year has been filled. But his feelings right now, and admittedly, his dick, say: no, let's hang out, and yes I know exactly what 'hang out' means.

"Sure, okay," Ryou finally says, "where to?"

Marik breaks out in a wide grin that he seems to try to tamp down on, not really hiding his enthusiasm. "My flat is pretty close to here. Maybe we can talk or watch some TV?"

Ryou's been through this pretense before. He knows no talking or TV will actually happen, but that's part of the script. "Yeah, sounds good."

When they're outside, Ryou tries to lead them to his car, but Marik wants to take his motorcycle. Ryou's never even considered riding a motorcycle— too close to death, in his opinion— but Marik is insistent. He pushes his single helmet into Ryou's hands. "Just hold onto me like a hug! You'll be fine. It's just through the streets," Marik reassures him with an electrically sensual grip of Ryou's shoulder. That's enough to convince him to get on the bike, he supposes, and mounts it after Marik does.

They're going faster than Ryou thinks the speed limit is, but whatever. Marik is confident as he revs through town and handles the bike like it's second nature, and the fact that he knows exactly what he's doing is heartening. Ryou has to admit— it's actually thrilling, riding this motorcycle, and as he clutches Marik around his torso, he takes the liberty of leaning his helmet-clad head onto Marik's back.

Marik pulls into a large apartment complex, and brakes the motorcycle gracefully in its parking spot. He helps Ryou off the bike, sets the stand upright, and grabs Ryou's hand to lead him upstairs. Ryou tingles— yes, tingles— with anticipation. He knows just what's happening next, if the poorly-concealed bulge in Marik's trousers have any hint to give.

They ride the elevator to the ninth floor, and Marik unlocks the door to a homey apartment. It smells like coffee and pot-pourri, like an actual home should smell. It's foreign to Ryou, and he suddenly sort of feels like he's intruding into this warm, welcoming atmosphere.

Marik looks at him, smiling a little. "This is it," he says, and steps closer to him. "Rishid— my brother. He's at work until this afternoon," Marik mumbles, and inches closer to Ryou, looking a bit shy. Ryou takes this very obvious hint as his cue to close the gap between them, and Marik smiles a little against Ryou's lips, cupping his face.

It's sweet at first, but it grows into something hungrier, especially when Marik sheds his leather jacket and lets it drop to the carpet. Not breaking the kiss, Marik leads him into what Ryou surmises is his bedroom, and they sit on his bed. Marik kicks his shoes off, and Ryou does too— Ryou's getting hard now, too, but when Marik reaches for the edge of Ryou's sweater, he pulls away, holding Marik's wrists in place.

"What?" Marik asks, breathlessly.

"I, um—" Ryou starts, and his stomach knots with what he doesn't want to reveal. "It's gross. There are... scars, and stuff like that."

"Well," Marik laughs a little, "that's okay, me too. See, look!" With this he pulls his shirt off, revealing an impressively toned broad chest, in Ryou's opinion— and then Marik turns so that Ryou can see his back. Ryou swallows uncomfortably, because on it is a hauntingly painful-looking tableau of carved glyphs, spanning from below the back of his neck to just above his trousers.

"Holy fuck," Ryou says, dumbfounded, before he can filter himself. "How old were you when that happened?"

"Ten," says Marik, though he doesn't sound sad, or upset— just distant. "The Tombkeepers are— well, were— tasked with carrying the legacy of the Nameless Pharaoh on our backs, for thousands of years. We guarded His tombs and waited for the day when He would return to our world of the living, so that we could show Him His forgotten memories using this," he gestures at his back.

Marik turns back around then. "See? There's no need to hide it from me," he says gently. Ryou feels oddly comforted, and maybe like crying, but he doesn't, and slips his sweater and t-shirt over his head in one relatively ungraceful movement.

His thin torso and arms are covered in those scabbed cuts from a few weeks ago, overlaid over previous slash scars. He looks away, feeling like he shouldn't even be showing them in the first place, not when Marik was forced to undergo some torturous ritual scarification thing at the fresh young age of ten without a choice. Well, it's not really like he even has control over what he does while dissociating, but still.

Marik, instead of focusing on the self-inflicted scratches, reaches up to trace his finger over Ryou's stab scar, the one that missed his heart by four millimeters— the one that evidences that a year ago, he was four millimeters away from dying. "This one wasn't on purpose," Marik all but whispers, looking a bit sorrowful.

"No," Ryou replies, just as softly. "I, I didn't want any of them, but. Especially not that one."

"I'm sorry," Marik says, and then kisses him slowly, bringing a hand up to caress Ryou's hair. Ryou feels bizarrely addicted to kissing him, and moves closer to him on the bed. Marik lets out a noise into Ryou's mouth as he reaches for the button on Ryou's jeans, brushing his knuckle over one of Ryou's nipples before undoing his trousers for him. Ryou can't help but pant out a little noise, his hips stuttering in place.

"What do you want?" comes Marik's murmur against his lips.

"I want you to fuck me," Ryou says, his voice a husky, assertive rasp he doesn't recognize. "Please."

Marik trembles as he pulls away to cross the room, crouching into his closet, and returns with lube. When he sits back down, he sets the lube on the bed and kisses Ryou as he tugs the jeans off Ryou's hips. Ryou lifts his ass up so they can come off, and kicks his way out of them. When Ryou reaches over to squeeze Marik through his pants, Marik shudders and lets out an oh noise, standing to peel his leather trousers off. They're both down to their underwear when Marik sits back down and pulls Ryou closer, so he's straddling Marik's hips on the bed.

They're dryhumping and making out like a couple of desperate teenagers when there's a noise very much like a door unlocking, and then a door opening, and then Marik is pulling back with a guilty look in his eyes. "Oh crap— I'm sorry, one sec!" he whispers, and wrangles himself out from under Ryou. Ryou drops back onto his knees, dazedly watching Marik scramble across the room to throw a pair of shorts and a t-shirt on.

Marik tries to casually saunter out of his room but fails miserably, and Ryou bites back a snicker as he watches Marik try to play it off like he totally wasn't about to have sex and that he's definitely the only person in his bedroom.

"Rishid!" Marik's muffled voice sounds softly through the closed door, and then it's a language Ryou doesn't understand. He settles back, stretching a bit, and glances about the room for the first time. An inordinate amount of posters adorn the walls; lots of corny motivational ones, too, like a cat hanging from a tree branch captioned with Hang in there! in Jokerman font. Ryou isn't sure if it's cringeworthy or endearing. Obviously none of these cutesy stuffed dolphins or Yes You Can! posters are here for ironic humour— Ryou doesn't even think Marik would know irony or sarcasm if it bit him on the nose.

"Sorry!" Marik hushes as he comes back into his room, looking a little flustered. "My brother didn't tell me he was getting groceries, he stopped to drop them here on his way to work."

"Oh," Ryou says, still painfully hard. "That's alright."

"He left just now, though," Marik affirms, pointing his thumb behind him as to gesture towards the empty rest of the apartment. "Again, I am really sorry."

"I said it's cool," Ryou assures him, although he knows what it's like to be a chronic apologist, and softens his tone a bit. "It's fine. Come here."

Marik's shoulders ease up, and he breaks into a little smile as he closes the door to his bedroom and crosses the room to where Ryou's sitting. They're kissing again, and soon Marik is roaming his hands over Ryou's chest and getting his boner back. It's weird how much Ryou genuinely enjoys just making out with this guy. Not that hooking up with him isn't great, but Ryou's never really experienced liking intimacy. The concept is foreign to him, and if he cared more, he'd probably want to investigate the reason behind this switch. With his therapist, maybe? What a laugh.

Thoughts of his therapist are not helping his dick at all, so he pushes all thoughts of her out of his head— this is much easier to do when Marik moves to grind their clothed erections, and through the two thin layers of cloth Ryou can feel everything and he mutters a low fuuuck against Marik's lips. He can feel Marik smiling against his mouth, and then they're moving so that Marik's leaning back against the headboard. Ryou pulls away to grab the lube, and pushes his boxer briefs off his skinny hips to prep himself over Marik's lap. With his knees on either side of Marik's thighs, his dick bobs between them as he slips a first lube-y finger into himself. "You got a condom?" Ryou asks somewhat breathily, which, to be fair, is pretty late in the game to be asking, but better late than never, he guesses.

Marik nods, looking like a child overwhelmed by the choices at a candy store. He just reaches over for the bedside drawer and digs one out, and then rolls it onto his dick with shaky hands. Ryou holds back a grin; he knows he's pretty sexy while he fingers himself, he's been told by multiple dudes, and it seems as if Marik is of the same opinion. Good to know he hasn't lost his touch. If he's good for any one thing, it's this, he supposes.

He's finally sinking down on Marik's cock now, and god is that dick good. "Fuck me," Ryou's saying in a tone foreign to himself. "Oh, my god." He's not sure if he's saying 'oh my god' about Marik's cock, or about the fact that he sounds like a stupid teenager who's trying too hard to sound sexy. Marik's whole body is shaking, and Ryou can tell he's trying not to make too much noise like he did last time, so he leans down to kiss Marik's mouth and moans quietly. Once he starts moving, though, all self-control Marik has flies right out the window and he goes nuts, whining and panting against Ryou's lips like his life depends on it. Marik's hips twitch upward and he ends up hitting Ryou's prostate just dead-on, which pulls a loud shout from him as he grips at Marik's hair.

Ryou starts moving now, slowly but urgently. Marik's open palm comes around to spank-grip his ass cheek, and Ryou just hisses fucking harder, and then Marik is full-fledged spanking him in time with Ryou's thrusts. Ryou cries out in absolute delight, tucking his chin into his shoulder and running a hand down his own chest. Ever-attentive to detail, Marik grips Ryou's dick between them and squeezes, and Ryou, in between a shudder and a low moan, leans back down to bite down on Marik's bottom lip. Marik falters on the spanking, panting, his eyelids fluttering. He starts stroking Ryou's cock now, and Ryou throws his head back, biting his own tongue to keep from moaning.

Ryou's legs are getting tired— they're shaking with effort, but he keeps going. The spanking is actually just spurring him on to keep moving, so he's way less inclined to ask for a position switch. He doesn’t have to strain his thighs for much longer though, because when Marik reaches up to grab at some of his hair and yank his head back, he’s coming in breathless groans, sinking into Marik’s lap all the way. His legs can’t possibly do anything, anymore.

When he’s finished, he looks back up at Marik, who’s staring at him with eyes bright and hungry. “Wow,” says Marik, and Ryou would be anxious about this reaction if he had more energy to react. “You are so fucking... good,” Marik then whispers.

“What?” asks Ryou, though he sort of understands, it’s hard for him to process the compliment, post-jizz. It had seemed to him that he wasn’t really doing much for Marik, that he had selfishly taken advantage of Marik’s dick for his own experience.

“I’m gonna come if you keep looking at me like that,” Marik admits, breathing hard through his bitten lips. “I, fuck. Where did you even come from?”

“I— shh,” Ryou hushes, not able to appropriately react to all of this. Nobody’s ever spoken so reverently about him before. Instead, he lets his rested legs spur him up in short, slow, deliberate thrusts again, and kisses Marik gently. It’s a kiss that’s reminiscent of the one at the door when they first got to his flat, and the slowness of it all actually has Marik cupping Ryou’s sweaty face with both hands, almost as if he’s afraid to break Ryou between his hands. Marik finishes quietly, huffing hitched breaths onto Ryou’s lips.

Ryou is suddenly self-conscious, in the weird, post-coital air, and raises himself up and off of Marik's lap, and pulls his briefs back on. He doesn't want to be so presumptuous as to make himself comfortable on Marik's bed, but when Marik comes back from the garbage can across the room, he gets under the covers and invites Ryou to join him. Instead of protesting, he finds himself slipping his legs under the duvet. Ryou is quick to find out that Marik is a cuddler— with an arm around Ryou's shoulders, he brings him to his still-slightly-sweaty chest. All of this is foreign and queerly intimate for Ryou, but the thump of Marik's heartbeat on his ear and the long night/day he's had has him drifting off, Marik as his pillow.

Marik's then waking him up with a kiss to his temple, and he startles awake. "Sorry," Marik whispers, though there's not really a reason to be whispering at all. "I have to go to work."

Ryou stretches as he leaves the bed, and sees from the bedside alarm clock that Marik let him sleep for several hours. He's bleary from his sleep being cut short, but alert, too, feeling refreshed somehow. It's calm in the room as he pulls his jeans on, watching Marik dress in his Starbucks polo shirt from across the room. Marik looks back at him in the dresser mirror, and smiles as he catches Ryou's eye. Ryou finds himself gently smiling back, feeling a little flustered from this extreme tenderness.

Marik freshens up in the bathroom so he doesn't smell of sex at work, and Ryou sits on the closed toilet lid watching him dab cologne behind his ears. He regards himself in the mirror confidently, turning his head to admire his jawline. Ryou is bemused by his mannerisms, and increasingly attracted to him because of them. He's incredibly handsome, Ryou couldn't possibly say otherwise, and a little vain, which is usually a turn-off for him. Yet here he sits, cherishing these moments of wordless voyeurism into Marik's life and habits. The way he ties his hair back as much as he can for work, the way he holds the cologne bottle, which cologne he uses— some cheap David Beckham one that smells better than the bottle would imply.

Marik gives him a ride back to the brunch place, where he'd left his car. The motorcycle has lost its semierotic thrill and is just plain terrifying now, especially since Marik's kind of in a rush to get to work. His heart feels like the Indy 500 the whole way, and when Marik gently kisses him goodbye in the parking lot, against his own banged-up car, Ryou's heart shows no signs of slowing down.

Chapter Text

"You look, I don't know, a little happier. Has something good happened?"

Ryou sits in his therapist's office. He's kind of taken aback at her shoddy analysis of him. Usually he's not wont to betray his own feelings, especially to show them on his face. But, every time he thinks about Marik, it's weird – he gets this unfamiliar warmth in his chest. He guesses she filled in the blanks.

"I guess," he says, distrustfully.

"Have you joined that book club I recommended?" she prys.

"No," replies Ryou, and then, after a moment's hesitation: "Met someone." God, why not. Maybe if she hears he's interacting with people she'll let the court know he's fine and this whole court-ordered therapy thing will finally end.

She's edged forward in her seat now. "Oh – wow. That's really amazing, I'm happy for you." She scribbles notes in her legal pad, and Ryou holds back a grimace.

After a moment's pause while she writes, she looks up at him, curiously. "And how does it feel to have reached out to someone?"

"What do you mean?"

"Given your... what did you say before? That you were introverted?" She gives him a small smile that he feels is condescending, like the face one makes after a child has said something ridiculous and cute. "Well, given that, it must have taken a lot to have connected with someone on a deeper level."

Ryou quirks an eyebrow at her, but maintains his usual steady eye contact with the carpet. "I don't know, not really. It just kind of happened." He always keeps his answers brief and neutral with her, taking care not to give her the satisfaction of knowing more. Just enough for her to share with the court, but not enough for her to actually learn anything of value.

"Do you want to talk about her? What is she like?" the therapist then asks, and he has to just bite back a barking laugh. Instead, he tries to smile patiently, but he feels it come out weird and awkward.

"He is fine. I don't really want to say more."

She's silent for a moment, like she's been slapped. "...Oh. I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't really – sorry."

He looks at her then, right in the eyes. "I'm gay, yeah."

"Interesting," she volleys back, writing something in her pad – and Ryou's stomach knots with revulsion. He immediately regrets telling her all this. Something gushy and foreign in his heart is causing him to overshare, and the therapist is eating this shit up faster than she can breathe. She's so starved for information about him, she'll take just about anything.

"Why is it interesting?" Ryou asks, almost challenging her.

"Sorry," she sputters, trying to backpedal. "Not interesting, just. I. I didn't really suspect."

"Sorry I threw your gaydar," he replies sardonically.

She's turning red-faced, and Ryou kind of enjoys watching her squirm under the rut she's dug herself into. "Why don't we change the subject, if you're uncomfortable?" she blurts.

"I never said I was uncomfortable." She's clearly uncomfortable. He is used to having to fend off straight people awkwardly mincing their words with him.

"Oh. Okay, good."

In a provocative move that he'd never usually make, he keeps his eyes on her and asks, "Are you uncomfortable?"

She presses her lips together, fluffing her perm. "No. No, not at all. Do you want to tell me more about this person?"

Ryou has to be careful here. Marik could make an excited slip in one of his sessions about their time together, so he has to relay his own details in the most vague and generic way possible. "We just, spent a day together."

"Oh, that sounds nice," his therapist says, sounding a little frustrated that he's keeping his descriptions at level zero-point-five. She seems to consider something, her brow wrinkling slightly. "I noticed before that you said that your relationship with him had sort of, developed naturally. Can you elaborate?"

"Well," Ryou says, "I don't really have a problem with talking to people." He actually does, but tomato-tomato. "It's more of an I-don't-want-to thing. But he's kind of more outgoing, so it worked out."

"Maybe that as good for you, then, that he did more of the, uh. Social legwork, if you will."

"I don't know."

The room is silent, his muttered words dying in the stale, stuffy air of her office. Her carpet is tufted and worn, dirty in some places, and he wonders how many years it's been since she's actually vacuumed. Her own personal hygiene is impeccable, fussy even, and it's kind of weird to see her placed in this filthy office, as if someone had clicked and dragged her into the clearly secondhand club chair. Maybe a piece she moved to her office after redecorating her house. Ryou briefly wonders if she is married, or has children – he can't bring himself to look at her hand for a ring.

"Well, unfortunately, we have to end here," she says, and she sounds disappointed now – Ryou relishes in her tone.

"Okay, bye," he says without making eye contact, and walks out of her office without another word. Stepping into the hallway forces a sigh of relief out of his chest.

It's weird that the last time he was here, he sucked Marik's dick in the restroom down the hall. He considers using that restroom for a moment, but decides against it – it's now a strange, sacred place; immortalized in an introductory blowjob. Plus, it just feels awkward to revisit that anyway. He turns on his heel, craving McDonalds for some reason.

Ryou is hands-deep in an autopsy when he receives a text.

The vibration in his back pocket makes him jump in the cold basement. He is literally hands-deep; he's fully scrubbed, hair pulled back, surgical mask over his nose and mouth, and both hands are engaged in the innards of an elderly man. He's inspecting the bowel for tumors, and thinks to himself, god, the only person who ever texts me is Marik, this is a sexy reply to a 'wyd' message. He can't very well check it now, not unless he wants to get colon juice on his phone, so he refocuses on his work so he can get it done as soon as possible.

His 90's hip hop playlist is still blaring by the time he finishes – last week fucked around and got a triple-double, Ice Cube brags as he peels his gloves into the sterile repository. Tugging his greasy hair from its loose ponytail, he finally checks his messages. It's Marik, obviously. He's wondering if Ryou wants to hang out and get dinner sometime, maybe on his next day off. Ryou briefly wonders to himself what Marik was doing up at 4 in the morning, but okay.

He's got Thursday off, which also happens to be his birthday, but he doesn't care to mention that fact to Marik. He replies in the affirmative and tells Marik to choose a place. As he's packing his tools away, Marik has already sent him directions and told him to be there at 8 pm. He smirks a little – it's weird, because Marik vacillates between showoffy and fucking tender, but the dichotomy isn't unpleasant, or even mismatched. Rather, it's almost complimentary, like two yin-yang sides of a very very shiny, flamboyant coin.

Once he's outside, the late-August air blows a chill through him. The sunlight always tends to change round this time of year; it feels more sixteen-millimeter than digital, the oranges more intense but not quite as fall-paletted as September or October. He huddles closer into his sweater-jean jacket layers as he locks the funeral home's heavy front doors. As he's shoving the keys back in his pocket, he turns around and sees the coroner coming up the stairs holding a Starbucks cup in each hand.

"Hey, Ryou," says the coroner, puffing slightly from climbing the concrete steps. It's rare that they cross paths, so Ryou's a little surprised, but he tries to smile at his boss anyway. "I knew you'd be staying later than usual on this patient so I brought you this." He holds out one of his cups, still steaming some.

"Oh, thanks," Ryou says, genuinely grateful. It's black coffee – at least he knows how Ryou takes it. "How's your morning?"

"It's alright. Couldn't sleep much from the twins. One of 'em has colic I think, she keeps setting the other one off. It's like they're a feedback loop on each other – one of 'em cries and it sets off a chain reaction." Ryou can see the new-parent dark circles under his eyes, and smiles sympathetically. Just for now he can indulge in the idle chatter and forget that his boss is an asshole.

"How's your wife?" he supplies, enjoying the fact that the coroner is talking about himself and not asking anything about Ryou in return.

"Oh, she's fine. I just leave her to it, she's their mother," he shrugs.

"You help at all?" Ryou asks, remembering that he hates his stupid, macho boss. Oops, he actually can't forget that the coroner is an asshole.

"Nah. I need my rest, I'm the one who works anyway. She stays home all day, she's fine."

Ryou seethes, not bothering to point out that his wife is shackled with the babies all day as well, and therefore has no time to rest, and that he's a fucking misogynist, and that he should get his head out of his ass. "Okay, well, nice seeing you then," he sighs, breezing past the coroner as fast as possible. "Thanks for the drink."

"Hah, yeah, okay," the coroner laughs at him back down the steps, "I'd better get in there and clean up your mess for ya."

"Funny stuff, thanks," Ryou says, gritting his teeth as he gets into his car. He makes sure to peel out of there as fast as he can.

Ryou blares his car radio, sighing and trying to crack his neck as he speeds down the road. He's wound tight with frustration, especially for the way his boss loves to make a joke out of putting down his qualifications. God, he knows, the coroner went to med school while Ryou rotted his brain out in community college for two years. He's still pretty sure he does the job more thoroughly than the coroner does, even though given the funding he'd have killed for the opportunity to go on for a real degree. He'd have wanted to become a forensic anthropologist, but circumstances and lack of finances (or support from his father, frankly) cut that dumb dream short. Now he's got a measly certificate in anatomical science and nothing to show for it.

He slows down eventually, and lowers the volume on Morrissey wailing England is mine, it owes me a living! that's rattling through the crappy speakers in his old car. Ryou notices that a police car is approaching from the other side of the road, heading back the way he came. As he gets closer, he notices Jou is behind the wheel, who waves at him and smiles. Before he can really think about it, he waves back as their cars pass each other.

Thursday comes sooner than Ryou had anticipated. His birthday always rolls around unexpectedly – there's been times he's missed it entirely because nobody's been around to remind him. But now he's 23 years old, feeling weird about the passing of time. Anniversaries and birthdays are stupid and arbitrary by nature. Today, September 2nd, is his birthday; who really cares in the grand scheme. A little over a year ago on June 27th, he'd been stabbed; it's not like that's a particularly monumental day because he seems to relive it every day and all the time.

He passes the day in solitude, resting and reserving his energy for having to interact with Marik in the evening. At seven, he Googles the restaurant, and sees it's pretty upscale – fuck, it's not like he has a secret horde of formal dinner attire just chilling in his closet for an opportunity like this to arise. He probably should have researched the place earlier than this.

He decides on some pale green button-down he hasn't worn since high school and his least-ripped pair of black jeans. His look is essentially "underfed Kurt Cobain," so it's pretty much a miracle that he scrounged this dumb outfit together. He's still wearing his ratty converse; it's the only pair of shoes he owns, unfortunately, but hopefully nobody notices.

He arrives at the restaurant fifteen minutes early because of being-late anxiety, and sits in his car hyping himself up and trying to quell his stomachache. He'd showered and washed his hair, but it's already gone frizzy and strange. If he weren't going to a nice restaurant he'd pass it off as some sort of Robert Smith Goth Look but it's really sad-looking in this context. God, looking at his roots in the sun visor's mirror, he really needs to re-dye his hair. It’s looking a little dumb-teen-scene-kid right now; his black, sad roots peeking out conspicuously from his scalp before turning into a shock of bleached white. He'd started it when he was in high school, when dyeing your hair white was edgy and trendy, but now he feels like he has to keep it up because it'd be weird to go back now. The dark circles under his eyes and his resting bitchface just complete the look.

And it's a look that clearly doesn't fit here, he groans internally, as he steps out of his car. Some woman's wearing Louboutins in the distance, and he and his grungy high-tops want to book it out of here. But once he catches Marik's eye as he's stepping off his bike, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, it's too late to turn back now.

"Hey!" Marik calls at him, and Ryou nervously makes his way over to the overly-polished motorcycle. Under the streetlamp in the parking lot he can see Marik's suit is actually a deep purple – What a fucking odd couple they make, Ryou thinks to himself. "You look... good!"

"Um, sure," Ryou tries not to laugh, because clearly Marik is trying to be nice about his mismatched ensemble. "Why'd you pick this place? No offense. It's just, uh. Pretty fancy."

"Duh, happy birthday!" Marik says loudly, gesticulating wildly as if Ryou's stupid. Ryou feels himself turning red when several people in the parking lot turn to look at him.

"How'd you know it was my birthday?" he asks quietly as the begin walking towards the door.

"The internet, obviously," Marik laughs, and opens the door for him. Ryou tries to push down the feelings of invaded privacy, tries to rearrange them into feeling flattered that Marik would go out of his way to find that out – but no, he's still a little creeped out.

"Hi, welcome. What's the name on your reservation?" asks the young lady behind the host's podium, and then takes a second to look at them. "Wait, Bakura?"

The gears in Ryou's brain have to turn for a moment, and then he recognizes her. "Oh. Mazaki? Hey."

"Oh my gosh, how have you been?" she asks, smiling with wonder. She looks pretty genuine about it, but a little off-guard. "My god, you look the exact same. What are you up to?"

"I'm, uh –" he has to delicately phrase it so he doesn't say I work with dead bodies. "I'm working. In forensics. Um, how about you?"

"That's so cool!" she gushes, and she looks engaged, interested. Her hair's longer now, pulled back into a ponytail, and she looks healthy – her cheekbones are high and she looks confident, sure of herself. "I'm studying still, I'm doing dance therapy. You should come hang out with Yuugi and everyone sometime! It's been a while."

Ryou's stomach churns, remembering the last time that they all hung out was just before they graduated high school, when Wraith had just moved in, and that he was really offputting to everyone. It had been horribly uncomfortable – they were trying to play Monster World, but he'd hung around Ryou's neck the whole time like an albatross and was talking about inappropriate and gory topics. He'd been so angry and embarrassed, but so afraid to confront Wraith on it. "Sure, maybe. Uh, sorry," he realizes, "this is Marik. Marik, this is Mazaki, we went to school together."

"Anzu! Please," she says, smiling. "Good to meet you. You guys here for a special occasion?"

"It's Ryou's birthday," Marik says smugly, eyeing Ryou with a look he can't quite decipher. Lust, maybe? Lust's second cousin? Ryou is a little embarrassed.

"Oh, gosh! Happy birthday then!" Mazaki says. "I'll let the kitchen know so you can get a free dessert or something." She winks and grabs two menus. "Which name's the reservation under?"

"Ishtar." It almost belatedly occurs to Ryou that this is the first time he has heard Marik's last name. Marik Ishtar. Huh.

Mazaki leads them to their table, a little booth in the corner. "Your server will be right with you. And Bakura," she says, touching his shoulder briefly, "it was seriously great to see you. Find me on Facebook and we'll plan something, okay?" She grins at them and walks away with a little wave.

"She's nice," Marik remarks, raising his eyebrows. "What in the world is dance therapy?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Ryou says, "something to do with dancing therapeutically, I guess. She danced in school."

Marik laughs. He seems a little jittery. Maybe he's just nervous. "Pick anything, it's my treat."

Ryou looks at the menu and balks a little at the prices. "You're kidding. That's two out of two meals you've paid for. That's kind of ridiculous."

"Shut up, it's your birthday! What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn't take you out for your birthday?"

The word boyfriend makes Ryou's heart clench, and not in a rom-com way. He feels a little pale as he looks up at Marik, his mouth dry. "Is that what this is?"

Marik looks about ready to kick into high gear of a flight-or-fight response, and swallows. Ryou sees his Adam's apple bob. "Well, isn't it?"

Ryou glances back at Mazaki, who's across the restaurant at her podium, and then around the room to scan for a server. He's not quite sure what to say. Commitment is freaky to him and he's panicking a little. Commitment makes him feel like he's agreeing to let Wraith crash on his couch. Commitment makes him feel like he's driving Wraith through the woods at 2 am for one of his 'errands'. Commitment makes him feel like his mother's and sister's coffins are being lowered into the ground.

Maybe.

"Maybe," he echoes his thought. "Can we just, ah. Take it slow? And see where it goes?" Maybe that's a milquetoast answer, but it's about all he can muster. Marik looks a little dejected but nods, biting his lip.

"Yeah, that's okay," Marik replies, reaching across the table for Ryou's hand, resting near the artfully-folded napkin. Ryou feels himself taking Marik's hand before he can let his brain get the better of him, and he feels a little like crying – something he hasn't done in quite a while. Maybe since childhood. For a moment, they hold hands, somber, and Ryou squeezes his hand in an unfamiliar and emotional move. Marik looks at him across the table, smiling wanly.

The server asks if they're ready for drinks, and they both refuse, asking for water instead. Ryou feels intensely like he wants to let go of Marik's hand, embarrassed of his own gayness – feeling simultaneously like he wants to proudly display his affection for this guy, but also to hide under the table. But there's no chance of that, as Marik's gripping his hand tightly and showing no signs of letting go. They even scan the pretentious gastropub menu with their hands still connected.

"I think I'm going to have the shakshouka," Marik says – the first words they've spoken to each other in a good while. "It's always different everywhere I go."

"I can't tell which kind of cuisine this is," Ryou says, scanning the menu.

"It was called Modern Israeli Fusion on the website. I say it's Egyptian and the Israelis are thieves." Marik's back to grinning, his eyes bright, which makes Ryou smile back in relief. It was eerie and worrisome to see Marik's usually-cheery face twisted so sadly.

"What's a kubbah?" Ryou asks. Marik finds it on his menu and furrows his brow as he reads its description, then bursts out with a laugh.

"That's kobeiba!" Marik exclaims, his other hand gesturing at the menu. "Those bastards. They totally stole that from us. It's really good. You'll like it."

"We can always share both dishes if you like that one too," Ryou suggests. "Plus I have no idea what shakshouka is."

Marik laughs again, agreeing to family-style their meal. He orders for them both when the server loops back around with their waters, and when their food arrives, they eat enough to actually feed a family. Marik enjoys the food despite being bitter about Israel's hybrid cuisine, and Ryou discovers he doesn't hate eggs and lamb mince like he thought he would. The chef brings out a rum-infused slice of babka with a birthday candle in it (yom hu'ledet sameach!, he says, and Ryou shares a confused look with Marik) and tells them it's on the house. They take turns eating from it, eyeing each other over forkfuls of dense, swirled-chocolate bread.

Once they're outside and the cold air hits them, Ryou's full of food and lust and kisses Marik against the back wall of the building. Marik kisses him back so deeply that Ryou wants to sink down and let all those fucking rich diners watch him suck Marik's dick right here in the parking lot. Marik's got a hand twisted into Ryou's frizzy, sweaty hair, and he nips at Marik's bottom lip, hazily. He could almost swear he's drunk but he hasn't had a sip of alcohol.

In an impulse, Ryou starts kissing Marik's neck, breathing out where Marik's most sensitive. "Do you want to come back to mine?" he murmurs, the question easier to ask when his face is hidden in Marik's shoulder.

Marik nods fervently, and pulls himself off the wall. Ryou leads him to his car; they can pick the motorcycle up later. Marik tosses his helmet in Ryou's backseat and Ryou does everything in his power to obey the speed limit as he drives back to his building. He can feel Marik's gaze on him the whole way; Marik slowly unbuttons the top few buttons of his dress shirt as he watches Ryou drive, his lips parted slightly. Ryou's trying so fucking hard to focus on driving, but it's getting increasingly more difficult. At the stoplight, the neons of the city centre illuminate Marik's skin, shimmering blues and reds atop his smooth cheekbones and chest. Marik is staring at him, lustfully, and licks his lips, clearly knowing what that'll do to Ryou. Ryou almost can't bear it, reaching over to grab at Marik's hair and yank slowly. Marik whines, sliding a hand down his chest as his eyes slip shut. Embarrassingly, Ryou's drooling a little at this scene.

No sooner than Ryou pulls into his parking spot, Marik tries to go for Ryou's mouth, but Ryou tells him to wait until they get inside. They climb the two flights of stairs up to Ryou's door, and Marik pulls his hair to one side to kiss his neck from behind, as he struggles to unlock it.

Inside, they're at each other like magnets, but Ryou brings them away from the door – too much baggage there. They end up on his bed – the couch is more convenient, but Wraith slept there; he hasn't actually sat there since Wraith left. Ryou pushes the thoughts of Wraith from his head as he flicks his tongue at Marik's left nipple, twisting the other in his fingers. Marik's sitting on the edge of bed, and since Ryou's assumed a kneeling position by default, he gravitates naturally downwards and undoes Marik's trousers.

"It's your birthday," Marik sighs, and it sounds like he's trying to control a moan. "I should be doing this for you."

"Wait your turn," is all Ryou says, but just thinking about Marik sucking his dick is making it a little difficult to focus on the task at hand. Marik lets that trapped moan out, quiet and slow, when Ryou breathes hot over his boxers. Through the slit in Marik's underwear, he licks a little stripe up the length of his dick. He teases Marik, mouthing at his cock in between layers of fabric, enjoying the noises that follow.

Marik sighs as his dick is brought out of his underwear, and Ryou takes him in halfway, settling there for a moment. Marik's hands grip at his hair again, and when Ryou hollows his cheeks, he shouts, certainly loud enough for Ryou's neighbours to hear. The suction sounds that result are kind of goofy and embarrassing, but Ryou keeps going, starting with letting Marik gently thrust into his mouth.

"Okay," Marik pants, "come on." He gently brings Ryou off of his cock, leaning down to kiss his lips. Marik's drooling a little, which makes for kind of a spitty kiss, which is actually... kind of cute, Ryou realizes. Ryou is too aroused to disagree when Marik tells him to lay back against the pillows, and he undoes his jeans as he crawls to the head of his bed. He's been straining against his stupidly tight jeans for ages now, and lets out a low whine when Marik settles between his legs. God, nobody's ever gone down on him with the lights on, and he's – fuck, he's so gay. Marik's eyes boring into his just do it for him, maybe a little too much; Marik licks his pouty lips in anticipation. Ryou's just impressed he hasn't jizzed himself like a teenager.

Marik is kind enough to know he's been teased enough, and eases his mouth around Ryou's dick – that excess spit is doing wonders right now, it's nearly too much for him. He arches his back– he's overwhelmed, he's on fire, he wants more and only this. He doesn't want to come too soon, but also yearns to finish. He's making more noise than he ever has in his life during sex – he's not shouting, but rather, breathing in almost a panicked way, hyperventilating in intoxicated fervor. If he had more inhibition right now, he'd be tamping down on all of this, but it's been a while since he hasn't slept with someone to be reckless, or feel like he's disobeying his absent father, or trying to forget Wraith ever happened. He opens his eyes wide enough to see Marik's stroking himself while he goes down on Ryou, and this just sends him over the edge – he coughs through his orgasm, trembling, and caresses Marik's face with the hand that's not gripping the duvet.

He settles back against the pillows, breathless, blitzed out of his mind on oxytocin, and watches Marik kneel back on the balls of his feet as he brings himself off. It's kind of beautiful, watching Marik come undone, and after, he reaches out for Marik to join him. He's feeling strangely emotional; rare for him after sex. Marik unbuttons his dress shirt and pushes the blazer and shirt off his shoulders, exhaling in effort. He's sweaty, a sheen of it glistening on his forehead in the yellow light of Ryou's room. He smiles like he's won a race as he lays down, kissing Ryou's forehead tenderly.

Ryou gets up and strips to his underwear so he can get his 'pajamas' on – this just consists of the gym sweatpants from high school and a t-shirt so faded he forgot which band's name was on it. He's kind of more than conscious of Marik watching him from the bed, feeling strange that someone's in his apartment besides himself. This may actually be the first time he's had someone over since Wraith lived here. Even though he's feeling a knot form in his stomach, he wants desperately for this to be fine; he sits back down on the bed, afraid to make eye contact with Marik.

"Is it okay if I stay over?" Marik asks.

Ryou's palms get disgustingly sweaty. "Um," he says, his voice coming small and strange. "I can drive you back to your bike, if you want."

Marik's face shows its disappointment right away, and Ryou's guilty to have made him feel bad twice in one night. "Okay," Marik says quietly. "Can I just go and get some water before we go?"

"Sure. I have cups in the cupboard above the sink."

Marik leaves the room, and the empty bedroom seems to swallow Ryou. He chews at his thumb's cuticle, trying to calm himself a little. He's not sure why it's now that he's so hyper-aware, and why he doesn't feel safe in his own apartment right now.

Dishes clatter in the kitchen. Ryou reassures himself that it's Marik.

The sink whistles the pipes. Ryou reassures himself that it's Marik.

Wraith is in the kitchen and he is holding his knife.

He's outside in the cold air. He's holding scissors. Marik has got him by the shoulders. How did he get here?

"Ryou? What the fuck happened?" Marik asks, worry clouding his eyes. The wind whips Ryou's hair; his mouth is dry. What time is it? What year is it?

"I think I dissociated," Ryou whispers, unable to raise his voice any higher.

"You were carrying this scissor out here and you weren't answering me!" Marik looks almost angry, and Ryou's riddled with guilt. "God! Come inside! I'm going to make you tea."

Ryou lets himself be herded inside, and Marik tries to sit him on the couch, but he shakes his head frantically – he can't go near it, he'll die. He's unable to vocalize this but if he sits on the couch he'll die.

Marik gets the hint and lets him sit on his bed, and wraps the duvet around his shoulders. He's hot but he's cold – he's not sure how to react to his duvet enveloping him. "What happened? Can you talk?" Marik tries again, waiting in earnest.

"I'm, you were in my kitchen," Ryou says; it's always hard for him to talk when he comes to consciousness. "Wraith was in my kitchen, he was going to kill me. I said yes and he lived here like he owned it. You... he had a knife, he said to drive him out to those woods. You made those noises, he was telling me to drive, and I... I wouldn't do it."

Marik looks concerned, and horrified. "Can you start from the beginning?"

"Wraith – I had this roommate called Wraith. We met in a club and he approached me before I graduated high school, said he just needed a place to crash for a few months, so I said sure, sleep on my couch. I, I didn't know to think about whether he was dangerous, he was just kind of off. He was so..." Ryou buries himself into the duvet a little more. "he used to hang around my friends and make them uncomfortable. He used to stay out all day and come in at night and then tell me to drive him places. One time he made me drive to this apartment building and I heard screaming, I didn't know what to do but I never... I never asked questions. He used to call me his landlord and whenever he said jump I'd basically ask how high."

"What happened, then?"

"He stayed with me all through my certificate programme," Ryou says. He's kind of shaking. "Last year I was supposed to be studying for my finals and he told me he needed me to drive him, drive out to the woods. I asked why, and he – he had this, um. He had this switchblade, it had blood on it, someone else's blood, I said..." he takes a breath, exhaling slowly. He realises he actually hasn't spoken about this since court. "I said, what did you do, Wraith? He says I had to take care of business, just shut up and drive me. I said where did the blood come from? I said, you need to deal with your weird freaky shit elsewhere, you can't live with me anymore, I'm sick of this."

"Ryou?"

He's trembling. "He said he already loaded the body into my car, I just needed to step on the gas pedal for him. He said you'd better do it, or I'll fucking kill you too. And I – I said I'm calling the police so he. He went to kill me."

Marik's silent for a moment. "The scar."

"Yes."

"I'm so sorry," Marik says, and it sounds honest, but mostly shocked.

"I'm sorry."

"Do you want me to stay or go?"

Ryou's not sure.

"Can I make you tea?" Marik asks.

"Can we just sit here?" Ryou decides.

"Okay," Marik agrees with finality, and they sit until the sun streams through his blinds.