***Happy birthday SuperSteffy! You're the best beta of all times. I am seriously a better writer because of your constant edits, and my fanfics are better stories because of you (because you never let me get away with anything, lol).

Speaking of betas, thanks to ChaosRocket for beta'ing this.***

Every night he dreamed the same dream.

The room owned neither walls nor windows, perhaps pavilion would be a better term, but Marik always felt in his mind that it was a room. His soul room, a place that showed a reflection of self and expressed the yearnings of his heart.

Perhaps that's why Marik always met him there.

Marik leaned against a white support beam, looking out beyond the room. He didn't see grass or sky or anything that made sense; he only saw light, white . . . endless. Something about the madness of white, the purity of it, comforted Marik, so he often stared at the glowing void and allowed his thoughts to wander.

And his thoughts always drifted to Bakura.

A presence neared, shadow-quiet, almost imperceivable, like a well-honed razor blade resting against the delicate hollow of one's throat.

"I'm sorry," Marik whispered. Every night he whispered the same apology, and every night came the same reply.

"Marik I'm right here." His voice reverberated against the nape of Marik's neck. Within the tone of that cashmere voice Marik felt too many things; the sensation of silk bindings tying wrists and satin sheets soaking sweat from between the lines of old, old scars - the feel of smooth gold, burning cool against fingertips and cursed with tormented screams and the agonized begging for existence to end, and for them to end with it - and the simple assurance of a presence standing nearby proving that even a fallen angel can still be a guardian.

"I'll wake in the morning."

Lips dragged right below the collar of gold around Marik's neck. He spoke as he teased Marik's skin. "Doesn't matter. I'll still be . . . right . . . here . . ."

Marik sighed. His eyes could no longer bear the weight of his lids and they sank down, but Marik didn't dread the darkness behind his shut eyes because the light surrounding his room poured through the thin membranes of skin and vanquished his fears.

And there was also the fluttering of lips. It was hard to fear anything, darkness or death, with Bakura standing behind him.

Marik turned around, grabbing Bakura's face and attacking his mouth. "I can't stand this," Marik whispered between kisses.

Bakura grabbed Marik's wrists, rubbing the cuffs of gold shielding Marik's pulse points. "I'm right here, Marik."

Marik shook his head, pushing Bakura down on the bed in the center of the room, and pulled at Bakura's clothing. Bakura never spoke much in the dreams, but he did act. His legs tangled around Marik's hips, and his fingers spiralled into Marik's hair.

Each kiss brought a stabbing ache to Marik's chest. The longing snaked through his body until even his fingers and toes hurt with want for Bakura.

He wanted Bakura back, not a dream, but something he could wake up to.

But all he had was the dream, and in the dream Bakura sucked at his collarbone and squeezed Marik's body with his thighs. Marik reacted on sheer instinct, riding Bakura of clothing and devouring the stark white skin with touches and soft brushes of his lips. Marik removed his own clothing so he could feel the entirety of Bakura's cool, smooth skin against his own.

Bakura's gaze stayed calm but expectant as he waited for Marik to advance. Marik never did, not right away, he always waited until sweat nipped at Bakura's temples and his breathing came fast and shallow before he'd do anything beyond touch and kiss.

Bakura always took the torture in stride, as if he already knew that demanding or even begging would simply encourage Marik to go slower. The only sign of visible impatience from Bakura was the way his hips hitched skyward, deepening each kiss from Marik's lips against his white skin.

Tonight, however, a long sigh shifted from Bakura's parted lips, as if he couldn't endure their game any longer. Marik looked up, his lips still hovering over Bakura's thighs where he'd been kissing. "Something wrong?"

Bakura smirked, but didn't answer.

Marik found himself mimicking the expression, keeping his eyes locked on Bakura as he lowered himself back down and licked Bakura's inner thigh.

"You look good between my thighs." The words came quick, perhaps unbidden.

"Do I?"

"Yes."

The statement made it hard for Marik to keep the smirk on his face. The muscles near the corners of his mouth kept trying to stretch wider, turning the expression into a smile, but Marik resisted allowing Bakura to see the effect of his words. He sealed his lips around Bakura's shaft and began to suck. Bakura hitched upward at the sudden contact; it wasn't part of their normal routine and Marik could tell, by both the confusion and lust on Bakura's face, how much he enjoyed the change of pace.

Bakura grabbed the sheets, clutching them with both fists. As Marik continued to slide his mouth up and down, Bakura's hands shifted lower on the bed. Then he grabbed Marik's wrists, and then Marik's shoulders. By the time he reached Marik's hair, straining to arch himself higher, Marik knew Bakura was almost done.

Then Bakura shouted out a jumble of sounds that weren't quite words and Marik swallowed. He pulled away and looked up at Bakura. "Do you still want me?"

Bakura nodded, and Marik shifted higher in order to press into Bakura's body and stare at his face. Bakura's expression looked naked - the way his eyelids twitched with each thrust and how his mouth hung ajar to catch more air as he gasped for breath.

Bakura turned away, forcing Marik to look at him in profile. Marik leaned closer and pressed his lips against Bakura's, giving him no choice but to turn and face Marik again. Now Marik did smile, full and broad. There was something about seeing Bakura vulnerable, and knowing that he was the only person in existence that Bakura would ever allow to see him in such a state, that made Marik too happy not to smile. That's why most nights, even if it was only in his dreams, Marik made sure that he and Bakura lay face to face as Marik came.

As he finished, he couldn't suppress the whimper that escaped his throat. It was hard to censor one's emotions in a dream, and harder still when he was coming inside Bakura. Afterward he couldn't catch his breath, choking on tears he wouldn't shed, not even in a dream.

Bakura held Marik's cheeks. "Marik, stop."

Marik shook his head no, stubborn in his grief. "Bakura, you're dead."

"I was always dead."

"But now you're gone."

"No I'm not." He tucked a lick of pyrite hair behind Marik's ear, tracing Marik's lobe with a white fingertip and giving his earring a playful flick. "I'm right here."

"Dreams don't count."

"I keep telling you these aren't dreams, but you never listen to me, you stubborn bastard."

"You keep saying that, but every morning I wake up in my bed - alone."

Bakura tried to say something else, and Marik had the impression that his words were important, something that would help advance the recurring dreams to their next stage, but before he could speak, Marik's eyes opened to sunlight and the blaring of his cell phone alarm.

He groaned, swiping his alarm off with a violent jab of his finger. Marik glared at the phone and his bedroom. He didn't give two fucks about his day. He felt like he hadn't slept at all, and the empty bed made Marik shudder. A resigned sigh escaped past his lips and he rolled on his back, grabbing his cell phone and checking his emails, trying to pull his mind away from the half-asleep fog still cluttering his thoughts.

After killing fifteen minutes on the phone, Marik rolled out of bed, stumbling to the toilet and then brushing his teeth. He showered, dressed, and went through the motions of his morning routine, memories of Bakura and lovemaking still lingering between every other thought.

Once he made it to the kitchen, Marik fumbled with the coffee maker, sticking his mug directly beneath the filter to catch the first trickle of caffeinated salvation.

"Good morning," Rishid said, sitting at the kitchen table. They shared a two bedroom apartment in Luxor.

Marik didn't mind Rishid's company, although he was rather certain that Rishid was essentially babysitting Marik until he found a wife and settled down. He hadn't been able to explain why exactly that was never going to happen. He was sure Rishid knew; Ishizu was the problem. Marik wasn't sure if his sister was even aware that homosexuality existed, let alone that Marik himself prefered men.

"Morning." Marik rubbed sand out of the corner of his eye.

"I made breakfast." He gestured to a plate of fava beans.

Marik grimaced. "Maybe after I wake-up all the way."

Rishid kept his steady gaze trained on Marik. Marik turned back towards the coffee pot, aware that Rishid was one of the two people who knew how to read his face.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," Marik said.

Rishid took a sip from his mug of tea. Steam curled past his cheeks as he tilted the mug to his lips. "You should talk about it."

"I promise, I'm okay."

"I know." Rishid nodded, allowing a calculated pause to fill the air as he took another sip of tea before he continued. "You should still talk about it."

Marik sighed. He refilled his half-drunk cup of coffee and ladled the rest of the fava beans into a bowl although he wasn't hungry. He sat at the table across from Rishid. "It's nothing, really. I just haven't slept well in a while."

Rishid nodded. "You look tired."

Marik combed his hair with his fingers. Rishid saying you look tired was the equivalent of anyone else saying hey you look like crap. "I keep having dreams . . . very vivid dreams."

Rishid thought for a moment. "Are they similar to the dreams you had when we first left the tomb?"

Marik's lavender eyes widened a little at the memory of those dreams. "No. Thank the gods no. These are just dreams, not nightmares. I haven't have problems with that since . . ." Marik sighed. "Domino City."

More specifically since Marik learned the truth about how his father died.

"What happens in your dreams?"

Marik shook his head, taking a bite of food to end the conversation.

Rishid sighed and set his mug down on the table. "Marik, I couldn't stop . . . that day. I tried. I begged to take your place, but on the end I couldn't . . ."

"Rishid." Marik set his spoon and mug down. "Anything resembling a decent human being in my personality is because of your influence on me. I swear the dreams have nothing to do with the tombs."

Rishid shook his head. "I believe you. But because I couldn't stop it, I always stood by you, as if I could make up for it that way. Do you understand? Looking back, I should have dragged you to a therapist."

Marik snorted a single, humorless laugh. "Because we knew that therapy existed."

Rishid shook his head in agreement. "That's true. Even if someone had told us, it would have sounded crazy, so instead I followed you in your quest for revenge. The Ghouls, the crime, the killing." Rishid's honey colored eyes locked on Marik. "Do you understand? Since that day I've tried to stay beside you for everything, and I always will. I've seen the worst of you, and I accepted it, so don't hesitate to talk to me. Don't ever think I'll judge you."

Marik's lips parted and his wide eyes stared back at Rishid in surprise because suddenly Marik realized that Rishid already knew, not just his preferences, but knew that it had something to do with Bakura.

He sighed, looking away. "I miss him," Marik said, knowing he didn't have to explain who he was. "I know it's been almost two years and it's stupid. I'm stupid. It doesn't make it hurt any less."

"Talk about it."

Marik sipped his tepid coffee, stalling. "I'm in a bright place, and he visits. We talk a little, and then I wake up."

"What do you talk about?"

"Not much. He keeps telling me he's still near."

"Maybe his spirit is trying to assure you so you can move on."

"I've thought of that." Marik took another drink. "But that doesn't feel right. I'm sure I'm missing something. Maybe I'm forgetting parts of our conversations when I wake up?"

"Have you asked him specifically why he appears every night?"

Marik chuckled. "Bakura's not exactly forthcoming with information."

Rishid shrugged. "What do you have to lose?"

Marik smiled into his cup. "Good point."

Rishid stood up, washed his dishes, and dried his hands on a dishtowel. "I need to go."

Marik half turned from his spot to look at Rishid. "Say hi to Ishizu for me."

Rishid nodded, and turned to leave.

"Hey Rishid?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. I mean, really, thank you. It's nice . . . to have someone to talk to."

Rishid smiled, gave Marik one last nod, and left for the museum where he and Ishizu worked. Marik forced himself to eat, washing his own dishes afterward.

After breakfast, Marik went to his computer and turned it on. He had three online classes. Nothing driven towards a specific degree, Marik simply wanted to learn about the world above ground that he'd always coveted, although he favored psychology classes. There was something haunting yet fascinating about learning about how people coped with various traumas. A shudder sometimes ran down his spine when Marik realized just how normal he was when compared to other children who dissociated.

There was a sort of relief in it - to realize he wasn't the only one. It made him feel less alone in the world; however, it still couldn't compare to the level at which Bakura understood him. Millennium Items, Shadow Games, and a need for vengeance that justified countless atrocities. Those weren't topics for a therapist, and even Rishid didn't understand the anger Marik had felt.

Marik sighed, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling. A tangible ghost couldn't haunt Marik half as well as his own thoughts. He finished his class work, stretched, and went to the kitchen to make peanut stew.

As soon as Rishid returned, they ate. Their conversation was amicable; however Rishid's tone never lost its air of formality around Marik, as if Rishid continued to see himself as a servant. Marik tried to lighten the mood, telling a funny story he'd seen online. Rishid laughed, but with reserved dignity, and Marik sighed. He excused himself to his own room and dropped to his bed. He tried reading, tried checking social media on his phone, tried anything to avoid sleeping and dreaming, but he was in his soul room before he realized he'd fallen asleep.

Usually Marik leaned against a pillar and stared at the light surrounding his room, but this night he sat on the bed, waiting for Bakura. His eyes jumped around, trying to see what direction Bakura would appear from, but he never saw anything.

A pair of thin, pale arms wrapped around Marik's waist from behind. Silent as always, Bakura brushed Marik's hair over his shoulder and kissed the base of his neck.

"Bakura?"

"Who else?"

"What do you want, Bakura?"

"I want to see your back." He tugged the shirt off of Marik, pushing Marik down against the mattress. His fingers and lips hovered above each god card engraving.

Marik sighed. He craved Bakura's touch. No one else could touch Marik's scars, but Marik would all but beg Bakura to look at them. "Damnit Bakura."

"What?" Bakura asked.

Marik couldn't see the smirk, but he heard the mirth in Bakura's voice. "I can't think when you do that. It's distra-ah!" Marik's words dissolved into gasps as Bakura licked up his spine.

"You think too much. That's why I'm distracting you."

The warmth from Bakura's chest pressed against Marik's scarred flesh as he began to massage his lips along the nape of Marik's neck. His hands slid down Marik's arms, ending with his palms overlapping the tops of Marik's hands as Marik fisted the sheets.

"But I need to know why you're here."

"I'm waiting on you to bring me back."

"It's impossible. I don't have access to the Shadow Realm without the Rod."

"Yes, I had thought about that a long time ago."

"Bakura-"

"Shhh, Marik, just let me make you feel good for a night. We'll talk about it afterward." Bakura continued to lap at Marik's sand-colored skin, grinding into Marik's clothed backside.

Marik moaned, panting from the heat of Bakura's body, the closeness of it, the deliberate attention of Bakura's tongue, the way his hands squeezed Marik's hands. Bakura moved as if they were a ba and ka joining to become an ahk, and Marik forgot the advice Rishid gave him, or why he even wanted to know the answers. He curved his back up, pressing closer to Bakura, and gasped each time Bakura pushed his hips forward.

Marik's patience only held out for a few minutes. He flipped Bakura, tearing clothing away from limbs. Bakura didn't complain, only mirrored the fervor in which he disrobed Marik.

"Take me. Now."

Marik smiled at Bakura's husky, commanding tone. He pressed Bakura's legs out until they made a white V in the air, and shoved inside of him. Bakura gave a bark of pleasure, closing his eyes and pressing his head against the pillow below him.

Marik hunched over him, brass strands of hair hanging down as if reaching out to touch Bakura's pale stomach. Everything in Marik's mind, worry, stress, grief, was lost to heat and tightness. He watched Bakura arch skyward as he stroked himself, legs still splayed wide. Digging his knees into the mattress, Marik leaned back a touch to change his angle of penetration, pressing upward instead of straight in.

Bakura bowed his back into a tall arch, screaming loud, successive shouts of pleasure that blurred into a single erotic song. His hair clung to his sweat dampened face, and his cheeks flushed dark coral, and Marik almost came at the mere sight of him, but held back a moment to watch Bakura climax first.

They stared at each other, panting and sweating. Marik felt a hundred questions itching across his tongue, but couldn't voice a single one. Bakura grinned up at him. "Are you calm now?"

Marik shrugged, their lower bodies still connected and his arms propping him above Bakura's chest. "Yeah, I guess."

"Good. Now listen to what I've been trying to tell you, and stop taking my meaning figuratively." Bakura toyed with the golden choker hugging Marik's throat. "I'm right here." He dropped his hand and thumbed the bangles on Marik's upper arms. "And here." Next he traced the gold along Marik's wrists. "I've been here the whole time." Finally, he smirked and teased Marik's earrings, one and then the other. "Do you understand now?"

Marik gasped, sitting up in bed, still panting from his dream. Out the window dawn was only a dull, red spark trying to catch the horizon aflame. Marik closed his eyes, pressing his lips against his left bracelet and whispering into the gold. "You fucking asshole." He held the collar at his throat. "You brilliant, fucking asshole."