Marik clutched the Millennium Ring close to his chest, trying to ignore the tears pushing against his closed lids. It wasn't true. It couldn't be. But the harder he fought the truth, the harder the tears pushed until he found himself sobbing weakly, fingers wrapped tightly around the last link to his dead lover. Bakura was gone, and he couldn't handle it. All those nights he'd spent awake in the hospital after the accident felt like a tease now. A tease off all their time left, where Bakura slowly slipped into death, a place where Marik could not reach him. Behind his closed eyes he could still see Bakura's worn face. Cheek sunken, his skin bruised and cut to a point that it looked far beyond repair. He'd been covered in wires and IVs and bandages. Slings and casts that the doctors would prod and check to make sure things were going well. Marik didn't know it was possible for one body to take so much abuse.

He'd spent every waking moment in the hospital, talking to Bakura when he was awake and making promises that they would come home, that he'd care for him and look out for him... Bakura did his best to respond, but most times he would just smile and drift off again into sleep. He'd woken so suddenly one night, grabbing Marik's hand as the monitors went wild and warning bells sounded. He was coughing up blood, his body convulsing and thrashing over the bed. But he'd held onto Marik's hand. Before the doctors forced him back he'd looked right at Marik and whispered, "I love you."

And then he was gone.

Marik's days were spent wandering along the downtown. Just drifting. He was there but not really. His mind was always on Bakura. He missed everything about him, his touch, his voice, the way their lips touched just right...
Shutting his eyes tighter, Marik let out a small whimper and curled in tighter around himself. "No," he rasped. "No, Bakura... I'm so sorry."
Marik blamed himself for the accident. If he hadn't been out late, Bakura wouldn't have needed to take the car to pick him up. He wouldn't have been hit by a drunk driver. He wouldn't have spent two weeks in the hospital, caught between life and death until he'd been unable to hold on any longer. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that just as life was settling down for them, this had happened and crushed it to a sudden, painful end.

He felt so empty now.

Their room was untouched. His clothes still in the hamper, his side of the bed turned down from when he'd left to leave. It was as if Bakura could simply walk through the door and all would be normal again. He's accuse Marik of not doing the dishes before bed, Marik would remind him that it wasn't his turn, they'd argue a little, kiss when they decided it was enough, make love...
Tears splashed against the gold of the precious ring held in his hands. He often wondered if the spirit was still alive inside it, though he was never able to make contact. The metal felt as cold and dead and Bakura's hands had been in the hospital.
It just... It just wasn't fair.

Marik opened his eyes and looked down at the gold that reflected a distorted image of him. His eyes were puffy and red, his face drawn and his expression that of a man who had just lost everything. And he had.
The room was too silent to sleep in. Without Bakura's muffled snores or soft breathing everything seemed too loud. The wind, the traffic, the birds and even the low electrical hum from the bedside lamp. He would toss and turn all night, trying to block out the sounds that rang inside his head. But everything was too loud, too bright and simply too much for him to take.
But tonight was different. After another hour or so, he passed out on their bed for the first time since coming home from the hospital. He was too exhausted to move, and his body needed to rest. His dreams were restless, plagued with images of Bakura in the hospital and accusing him of being the cause for his death. He was at the funeral, looking down at the still body of his lover until his lifeless body somehow rose and tried to strangle him. He whimpered and cried out in his sleep, but there were no arms to comfort him. He hadn't suffered from nightmares for many years (though those ones had been of his abusive childhood), but now it seemed they had returned.

Marik woke from a restless sleep to a strange sensation. He felt warm, though the blankets were off and the room was rather chilly. But it wasn't the warmth that confused him so much as this feeling as if he'd been held. "Great, I'm going insane already," he muttered weakly, turning his face into the mattress and hugging Bakura's pillow close against his body. When he felt it was time to leave, he rolled out of bed and dressed, not really caring how he looked. Whatever. Clothes were clothes after all. Where he once have cared and fussed over how he looked; now there was no point. Why bother wasting the time?
He touched the picture on the bedside table, one of him and Bakura on their trip to Egypt a year ago. The frame sat next to the box carrying Bakura's ashes. It was one of the few pictures he had of Bakura smiling. The pair were at a restaurant, both seated and looking directly at the camera. Behind the camera was Ishizu and Odion, who had taken the camera to capture them throughout the night. Though there were a ton of photos from that evening, this was Marik's favourite. He and Bakura were holding hands on the table, and Marik was kissing Bakura's cheek. And Bakura's face... He was smiling. The photo was caught just before he laughed and told Marik he was acting adorable again. And then they'd embraced, kissed again, and spent the rest of the evening talking about if they should look into buying a house. Looking at it now was bittersweet.

He eventually left the apartment, hands in his pockets and head bowed. He didn't come home for several hours.

He avoided the apartment for a while, just spending time in the downtown core. Coffee shops, furniture stores, even toy stores. Anything to get his mind off of Bakura. Of course, nothing worked.
His thoughts led him to eventually go home and pack a bag. He pulled all his clothes and stuffed them into a suitcase. He brought only a few photos beyond that along with Bakura's ashes, and then brought himself to the airport. He glanced at the international flight board and found the first plane to Egypt, needing to get away from the city and focus on his own thoughts. He bought his tickets and boarded, giving Ishizu a call to meet him when the plane landed. He barely remembered the flight as he slept through most of it.
It was surreal to be back home, breathing in the hot dust of the air around him. Be he loved it. He'd always wanted to bring Bakura back here so they could live in the place where their lives began. Bakura as the king of thrives, him as a tomb keeper...
Ishizu was concerned when she picked Marik up. He was silent the entire ride back to her home until she finally asked if he was okay. His expression shattered, crumpling before her as he broke apart. Hands covering his face, he openly sobbed, muttering through his fingers and shaking his head. They stayed up talking all night, Marik explaining how he'd brought Bakura's ashes along with him. He'd never found the right place to bury him, and this seemed like the best place. When Ishizu asked where, he shrugged and let out a long sigh.
"In the most beautiful spot I can find."

He wore the ring around his neck now. Not for its power but because he felt closer to Bakura if he did. But wearing such an object began to cause of his troubles when walking back from the market one evening. After being there for a week he'd offered to head down to the marketplace and get some food to bring back for him and his sister. After bringing things home, he'd returned to the busy and frantic square, just sitting and watching. The chaos was almost enough to distract him and it was almost relaxing.
When sunset closed the market down, he stood to leave. He brushes himself off and made his way along the narrow streets, taking twists and turns that would seem confusing to anyone new to the area.
The three thugs threw him against the wall, fists colliding with his jaw, his gut, and his nose. He doubled over before them, not having the will to fight back. Not only was the will not there, but the entire thing seemed unreal. Him being mugged. Ha.
A part of him even hoped they would kill him. Call it pathetic, but Marik felt as if he had nothing to live for anymore. Everything he loved and wanted was nothing but a pile of ashes in a box tucked away in his suitcase. He glared up at the criminals and spat out a mouthful of blood. "Is that all you've got?" he sneered, trying to push them. And it worked. But when the blades came into view, the ring grew hot around Marik's neck. He cried out in pain and tried to pry it off but it would not move. Darkness pulsed from the ring and the three men before seemed to almost be sucked into the void the ring created, screaming and trying to move away from the power. Then with a bright flash, Marik found himself knocked out cold on the stone.

When morning arrived he woke to the sound of the busy market. Rubbing his eyes, he groaned and looked down at himself, panicking when he saw the Millennium Ring no longer in his possession. He looked around frantically until something struck him as being off. The smells, the language around him... He picked himself up and moved out to the main street. His entire body was sore and covered in a rainbow of bruises and cuts all in various stages of healing. He winced, limping closer to the mouth of the street that was tucked between two buildings.

This was not his time. The clothing the people wore and the lack of modern buildings and technology he was used to was obvious to spot right away. This had to be a dream. He was about to make his way out to the street when strong hands he knew so well pulled him back. And that voice spoke to him so softly... "You'll need a slight change of wardrobe first."

Marik spun around. It was Bakura that stood there, but he looked different. His skin was darker, his hair cut differently, and a scar under his right eye. Dressed in robes, Marik could see the years of hard labour toned into every muscle. It was then that it struck him that this was not the Bakura he knew from his time, but the Bakura that was often mentioned during dinners, after sex, when someone cut them off in line at the supermarket and Bakura needed to vent his anger... This was the King of Thieves.
Though Marik had heard stories he'd never imagined him to be anything like this.

He could recall one evening where he'd been laying in bed with Bakura, stroking his hair back after a night of rather intense and frantic sex. Things were quiet between them until Bakura propped himself up on one elbow. He looked down seriously at Marik, studying him with those eyes that captivated him from the start.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," murmured Bakura. "I was just thinking... It's silly." He trailed off, resting a hand on Marik's chest and drawing random shapes over his skin with one finger, his skin so much paler than Marik's.
He shivered at the touch and shook his head. "No, tell me," he insisted, cupping Bakura's cheek in his palm, one thumb stroking his cheekbone. "What are you thinking about?"
"When I was the king of thieves. I don't know. It's been on my mind lately. Just the memories... Had we been in ancient Egypt, we would've been kings, Marik. I would've given you everything." He cocked a lazy grin and rested his head back on the pillow. "It would've been perfect."
Marik raised a brow and sat up on his elbows. "It's already perfect," he murmured quietly. "What we have is perfect, Bakura. I wouldn't want it any other way."
Bakura just closed his eyes and chuckled. "It is... But I do still miss it sometimes."
"Hey, things are okay. Everything is going to be fine," whispered Marik. "Don't dwell on that now, okay?" But his words fell on deaf ears, as Bakura was already asleep.

This was the life Bakura had wanted. To be back here as the king of thieves.

Marik didn't know if his heart sank or lifted to see him once more. He was happy because it was Bakura, but his heart squeezed because it wasn't the Bakura he knew, dressed in boring shirts and complaining about how long his hair was getting. But those things came to an abrupt end when he felt his shirt being tugged on. Bakura was lifting it up, slowly pulling it off over Marik's head. His lips grazed over his cheek, sending shivers down his spine. Bakura's hands felt rougher now, telling of a life spent outside of luxury. It was the same and different all at once. Everything was moving so fast that Marik felt dizzy. He drew away from Bakura, resting a hand over his temple as if he could stop the world from spinning.

"I'm serious. You don't want people to stone you for looking different," said Bakura, holding up his other arm where some clothes were draped over a bare forearm. The white linens looked like the traditional robes his father had once worn. Bakura moved forward again, offering the clothes to Marik. "Come on."

Marik nodded dumbly and undressed somewhat shyly, accepting the clothes that Bakura put into his hands. He pulled them on, his head still spinning with questions. Why was he here? What happened?
He caught the way Bakura's eyes scanned his body, fixing on the marking on his back in particular. Marik remembered how much he'd hated Bakura touching it. How his fingers traced the slightly raised flesh. At first it had given Marik flashes of his past; the hot knife slicing through his skin and the burning pain in his throat as he screamed out for his father to stop. He begged, he cried, he swore and kicked until the pain became too much for him to handle. Perhaps that had been the moment the dark spirit had entered into him, feeding off his anger and fear and turning it into hatred. When he shared this with Bakura one night, he had nodded and drawn Marik close to him.
"I will never hurt you," he promised.
But he had. When he left Marik all alone, he'd been hurt.

"You're oddly silent. That's not like you, Marik."

Marik looked up again and shook his head to clear it. Bakura's face was just inches from his own, eyes level and seeing right through him. He blushed lightly and looked down again. "I just figured I'm having a really weird dream. I've had them often since... you know." He blinked his tears away and touched the light fabric covering his shoulder, protecting him from the harsh sun he felt beating down on him. "I did just get mugged by three men." He let out a small sigh and then touches his neck. "I lost your... Oh." He saw the Millennium Ring hanging around Bakura's neck, resting over his bare chest. "You have it."

Bakura looked down and touched the gold, nodding slowly. "Yes. Marik... I can't explain without you assuming this is indeed some sort of dream. When you held the Millennium Ring I could feel what you felt. It pained me that you were so angry and sad... But I could not reach out to you without a physical form, so I remained trapped here. When I sensed those men were going to kill you... I did the only thing I could do, which was to use all the power I could to bring you here, which I still exist." Bakura's finger skimmed over Marik's jaw, gently tilting his chin upward so their eyes met while he spoke. "It was the only way I could save you, Marik. It was the only way I could see you again. I still remember you and everything we did together. We can start over here." He paused again. "I was scared of you losing your mind to darkness again. When you wore the ring, I swore I would protect you against anything."

Marik's eyes filled and he embraced Bakura tightly, forehead pressed against his shoulder. "Don't ever leave me alone again," he whispered. Bakura could only nod and rest a hand on his back. Though back in Marik's world, his lifeless body lay cold on the street, his soul was now safe here. Even if he lived in blissful ignorance of his fate, Bakura did not regret his choice to bind Marik's soul into the ring with him, and then open the pathway here. All that mattered was that he could hold Marik again.

"Things are okay now, Marik. Everything is going to be fine."