[✐fanfic] yugioh abridged: sweet hatred together
Title: Sweet Hatred Together
Word Count: 1,883
Rating: T for language and innuendo.
Summary: TASverse. Bakura and Marik make sweet hatred together. All night long.
Author's Notes: Operates on the AU premise that Florence defeated Melvin, thus saving the Abridged Series from cancellation and landing Marik back in his own body.
“I hate you, Marik,” hissed Bakura, the words sliding out between nearly-clenched teeth. “Every bloody thing about you.”
The object of his hatred sat cross-legged on Odion's vacant bed, holding a fluffed pillow to his chest. The two young men had initially returned to Bakura's room, but found the rest of the cast already throwing a party there. Rather than deal with that hassle, Bakura and Marik had simply occupied the next available space. Tough luck for Odion. Neither could even remember where they'd stashed him.
“Absolutely every tiniest miniscule thing?” Marik inquired, looking up from examining his fingernails. That Melvin guy hadn't filed them daily while possessing his body. It irked him. “Because that's bordering on the obsessive. You might want to talk to a counselor about that, Bakura. Just saying.”
Bakura set his jaw. “Yes, Marik,” he concurred, his accent lilting slightly as he imitated his partner in hate. “Absolutely every tiniest miniscule thing. I hate the way you carry yourself. The way you dress. The way you speak before thinking about what you're going to say, then make it up as you go along without any idea how stupid you sound.”
The more he spoke, the more reasons to hate Marik rose to the surface of his mind. Bakura rode the wave and was mildly surprised at how good it felt. The words spilled quickly, yet he wrapped his mouth around them with care, enjoying every syllable. “I hate the way you comment once you've figured out something someone else was suggesting, even if they'd made the suggestion episodes ago. I hate how self-absorbed you are, unable to see your own problems. Generally speaking, I hate that you're oblivious.”
As the words began to hit Marik, he wavered unevenly on the bed, clutching the pillow to himself; then, just as suddenly as he'd moved, he froze, contemplating something with the fullness of his mental faculties. “Heyyy,” he finally interrupted hotly, putting down the pillow. “What's wrong with the way I dress? At least I pick my own clothing in the morning, as opposed to you. You have to rely on that British kid for fashion sense, and we all know how stupid that is. Ha! Relying on the British! For fashion sense! Hah!”
“I hate your selective hearing,” Bakura continued, his voice a mite louder and a mite tighter than before. His teeth by this point had definitely clenched. “I hate that little bubble around your head, that only lets through what you want it to. I hate how you repeat things you find amusing, or if you don't have anything better to say. I hate how you talk at the movies and how you play with the ice cubes in your drink. Do you know how childish that makes you look? You're a child, Marik. A pathetic, snotty child.”
“Well, you're a wanker,” countered Marik, feeling quite clever for using one of his limey friend's own words against him. “At least I know how to have fun. I hate that about you, Bakura. Did you know that? I hate that you don't know how to have any fun, and you don't want me to have any fun either. I hate how you jump at me every time I talk, like everything I say is stupid or something.”
Bakura raised an eyebrow and decided against pointing out the obvious. Marik continued. “I hate that you never look happy to see me - or anybody, for that matter. I hate that stick you've got shoved up your hiney. It's got to be uncomfortable. I hate that you just can't appreciate a good evil scheme when you hear one. You rain on everyone's parades, Bakura. Raining. Forever. So long that there will never be a rain date through rescheduling. That is how much you rain.”
“Marik,” Bakura began, “I hate--”
“PARADE RAINER!” Marik insisted, climbing off the bed and standing to confront Bakura, arms akimbo. Bakura groaned and rolled his eyes, one finger tapping against his crossed arms.
“I especially hate how you interrupt me when I'm talking,” Bakura growled. “I hate that you've latched onto me and won't let go. I hate that I haven't had any peace and quiet since I've met you. I hate that all of your evil plans involve me or my host being put in mortal danger, as if I'm some expendable pawn like all those Steves you're so proud of. I hate your ineffectiveness as a villain, how you're all talk and no action. I hate how your few actions are so pathetically ill-informed that you couldn't even threaten a fly, let alone squash it!”
Marik stood on his tiptoes to yell. “If I had sworn bloody vengeance on the fly over the corpse of my dead father, I most certainly would be able to squash it! I hate--”
“Marik, Melvin killed your father.” Bakura could no longer refrain from contradicting his companion. “In a manner of speaking, you killed your father.”
“I hate how you're always missing the point!” Marik shouted, drowning Bakura out. “I hate the way you lord over everybody else but never do anything yourself! When was the last time you did something truly evil? Huh? At the beginning of this season. And when will be the next time? Heh? Not for a whole two seasons more!”
“At least my plans work!” Bakura insisted, unable to resist taking the bait. The hatred had reached its boiling peak and now overflowed. Just staring at Marik made him lose control. “And we wouldn't even have subsequent seasons if it hadn't been for me! I'm the only one who ever does any bloody work around here, and you, you bugger, skip about as if the world revolves around you! Well, it does not, Marik, it bloody well does not, and I hate that talking to you about anything feels like talking to a wall - no, like talking to Tristan!”
“YOU DIDN'T!” Marik shrieked at the top of his lungs, unable to breathe for rage. “YOU ABSOLUTELY EFF-ING DIDN'T! Well, let me tell YOU something, binky-boy!” He thrust a finger dramatically at Bakura. “I HATE YOUR ACCENT!! YES. YES, I WENT THERE!” His face lit with the sadistic joy of triumph. “TOP THAT, YOU LIMEY MORON! YOU PARADE-RAINING, STICK-STUFFED LIMEY MORON!”
Bakura shot a hand out and grabbed Marik by the shirt, pulling him close, close enough to breathe on his face; Marik squirmed but Bakura refused to let him go. “I hate your stupidity!” Bakura rasped, eyes crazed; the fight went out of Marik's face, and he even looked a little lost. “I bloody hate it. I hate Marik-land, that perfect little world existing only in that pretty schizophrenic head of yours.”
His fist in Marik's shirt quivered; his eyes bored into Marik's own, through Marik's gaze, into a mind that Bakura took great pleasure in imagining perfectly empty. “I hate your sense of self-importance, when you're just lying to yourself about everything, every day! Marik, I--” For the first time, the words failed. “Marik, I hate you.”
With this final exhalation he pushed Marik away from him, as far as he could; Marik stumbled backwards and fell on his back atop the bed, arms splayed out, eyes gazing blankly at the ceiling. Bakura, unable to stand for shaking from hatred, toppled beside him. They lay side by side, staring up at nothingness. All was eerily, perfectly quiet.
They lay for minutes that felt like hours, not even looking at each other. Finally, Marik found his voice and spoke, albeit somewhat more feebly than usual.
“Hey, Bakura.”
“What, Marik.” Bakura looked up at the ceiling as if no sight before had ever fascinated him so much.
“We probably should have stuck to silent hatred. Eyes boring into each other. Teeth clenching.”
“I clenched my teeth plenty, Marik.”
“It's not always about you, Fluffy.”
“No,” Bakura admitted. “No it's not.”
They lay in silence for a while longer.
“Hey, Bakura.”
“Yes, Marik?”
“What are you going to do from now on? Now that the show won't be canceled, I mean.”
Marik sounded almost thoughtful; even with the “almost”, this was enough of a first to make Bakura at least attempt to look at him. “Scrape the barrel for every bit of screentime I can get, I suppose,” Bakura replied. “Know my fangirls appreciate those precious minutes far more than the wasted hours bestowed on Yugi. The same thing I've always done.”
“Oh.” Marik appeared to think about this. Bakura doubted this appearance. “Can I come too?”
“Come what?”
“Barrel scraping.” Marik's voice wavered, as if he were almost scared. “I'll be written out soon too, you know. I can feel it. And then I might return a few seasons later, a shadow of my former glory.” Although the two lay side-by-side, Marik sounded dim, far away. “I don't want that.”
“No,” sighed Bakura, remembering days spent in a hospital bed. “No, I suppose you wouldn't.”
“So I can come too?” Marik asked hopefully.
“I never said that.” Bakura sighed, relaxing into the sheets. “But yes. Yes, you can come too. Though I'm warning you: people will only be watching so they can see me.”
“Just keep telling yourself that, Kitty.”
Mark would have tagged along even if he'd been rejected, Bakura thought with resignation, letting acceptance of the situation sink in. Besides....Well, if Marik had been written out of the show....
“I hate you, Marik,” Bakura admitted softly. The night's activities were catching up on him, and on the body he occupied; he suddenly felt exhausted, unable to move any more. Just lying like this would be fine.
“I hate you too, Bakura.” The sheets rustled as Marik shifted his head to get more comfortable; he pulled over the fluffed pillow, now a bit worse for the wear from his squashing it, and placed it beneath his head. “Shall we defeat the Pharaoh tomorrow?”
“Whatever you want, Marik.” Bakura closed his eyes. “Just don't wake me before noon. And I never conquer arch-nemeses before I've had at least three cups of piping hot tea.”
“You are so very British. Your British-ness astounds the mind. Boggles it.”
“It doesn't take much.” Bakura sighed. “Good night, Marik. Remember. Noon.”
“Noon. I'll remember, Bakura.”
“You'd better.”
But Bakura knew Marik wouldn't remember. As soon as Marik had gotten up, that nasally voice would be screeching in Bakura's ear, prattling nonsense or about whatever banal yet bizarre dream he'd had, if people slow as Marik even dreamed to begin with. He'd probably even chide Bakura for sleeping in on such an important day, having just about run out of patience with ancient Egyptian spirits in pasty pretty-boys' bodies who didn't know how to seize the day properly...
Bakura, drifting off to sleep, simmered lightly. He hated Marik oh, so much.
And bugger, did it feel good.
Word Count: 1,883
Rating: T for language and innuendo.
Summary: TASverse. Bakura and Marik make sweet hatred together. All night long.
Author's Notes: Operates on the AU premise that Florence defeated Melvin, thus saving the Abridged Series from cancellation and landing Marik back in his own body.
“I hate you, Marik,” hissed Bakura, the words sliding out between nearly-clenched teeth. “Every bloody thing about you.”
The object of his hatred sat cross-legged on Odion's vacant bed, holding a fluffed pillow to his chest. The two young men had initially returned to Bakura's room, but found the rest of the cast already throwing a party there. Rather than deal with that hassle, Bakura and Marik had simply occupied the next available space. Tough luck for Odion. Neither could even remember where they'd stashed him.
“Absolutely every tiniest miniscule thing?” Marik inquired, looking up from examining his fingernails. That Melvin guy hadn't filed them daily while possessing his body. It irked him. “Because that's bordering on the obsessive. You might want to talk to a counselor about that, Bakura. Just saying.”
Bakura set his jaw. “Yes, Marik,” he concurred, his accent lilting slightly as he imitated his partner in hate. “Absolutely every tiniest miniscule thing. I hate the way you carry yourself. The way you dress. The way you speak before thinking about what you're going to say, then make it up as you go along without any idea how stupid you sound.”
The more he spoke, the more reasons to hate Marik rose to the surface of his mind. Bakura rode the wave and was mildly surprised at how good it felt. The words spilled quickly, yet he wrapped his mouth around them with care, enjoying every syllable. “I hate the way you comment once you've figured out something someone else was suggesting, even if they'd made the suggestion episodes ago. I hate how self-absorbed you are, unable to see your own problems. Generally speaking, I hate that you're oblivious.”
As the words began to hit Marik, he wavered unevenly on the bed, clutching the pillow to himself; then, just as suddenly as he'd moved, he froze, contemplating something with the fullness of his mental faculties. “Heyyy,” he finally interrupted hotly, putting down the pillow. “What's wrong with the way I dress? At least I pick my own clothing in the morning, as opposed to you. You have to rely on that British kid for fashion sense, and we all know how stupid that is. Ha! Relying on the British! For fashion sense! Hah!”
“I hate your selective hearing,” Bakura continued, his voice a mite louder and a mite tighter than before. His teeth by this point had definitely clenched. “I hate that little bubble around your head, that only lets through what you want it to. I hate how you repeat things you find amusing, or if you don't have anything better to say. I hate how you talk at the movies and how you play with the ice cubes in your drink. Do you know how childish that makes you look? You're a child, Marik. A pathetic, snotty child.”
“Well, you're a wanker,” countered Marik, feeling quite clever for using one of his limey friend's own words against him. “At least I know how to have fun. I hate that about you, Bakura. Did you know that? I hate that you don't know how to have any fun, and you don't want me to have any fun either. I hate how you jump at me every time I talk, like everything I say is stupid or something.”
Bakura raised an eyebrow and decided against pointing out the obvious. Marik continued. “I hate that you never look happy to see me - or anybody, for that matter. I hate that stick you've got shoved up your hiney. It's got to be uncomfortable. I hate that you just can't appreciate a good evil scheme when you hear one. You rain on everyone's parades, Bakura. Raining. Forever. So long that there will never be a rain date through rescheduling. That is how much you rain.”
“Marik,” Bakura began, “I hate--”
“PARADE RAINER!” Marik insisted, climbing off the bed and standing to confront Bakura, arms akimbo. Bakura groaned and rolled his eyes, one finger tapping against his crossed arms.
“I especially hate how you interrupt me when I'm talking,” Bakura growled. “I hate that you've latched onto me and won't let go. I hate that I haven't had any peace and quiet since I've met you. I hate that all of your evil plans involve me or my host being put in mortal danger, as if I'm some expendable pawn like all those Steves you're so proud of. I hate your ineffectiveness as a villain, how you're all talk and no action. I hate how your few actions are so pathetically ill-informed that you couldn't even threaten a fly, let alone squash it!”
Marik stood on his tiptoes to yell. “If I had sworn bloody vengeance on the fly over the corpse of my dead father, I most certainly would be able to squash it! I hate--”
“Marik, Melvin killed your father.” Bakura could no longer refrain from contradicting his companion. “In a manner of speaking, you killed your father.”
“I hate how you're always missing the point!” Marik shouted, drowning Bakura out. “I hate the way you lord over everybody else but never do anything yourself! When was the last time you did something truly evil? Huh? At the beginning of this season. And when will be the next time? Heh? Not for a whole two seasons more!”
“At least my plans work!” Bakura insisted, unable to resist taking the bait. The hatred had reached its boiling peak and now overflowed. Just staring at Marik made him lose control. “And we wouldn't even have subsequent seasons if it hadn't been for me! I'm the only one who ever does any bloody work around here, and you, you bugger, skip about as if the world revolves around you! Well, it does not, Marik, it bloody well does not, and I hate that talking to you about anything feels like talking to a wall - no, like talking to Tristan!”
“YOU DIDN'T!” Marik shrieked at the top of his lungs, unable to breathe for rage. “YOU ABSOLUTELY EFF-ING DIDN'T! Well, let me tell YOU something, binky-boy!” He thrust a finger dramatically at Bakura. “I HATE YOUR ACCENT!! YES. YES, I WENT THERE!” His face lit with the sadistic joy of triumph. “TOP THAT, YOU LIMEY MORON! YOU PARADE-RAINING, STICK-STUFFED LIMEY MORON!”
Bakura shot a hand out and grabbed Marik by the shirt, pulling him close, close enough to breathe on his face; Marik squirmed but Bakura refused to let him go. “I hate your stupidity!” Bakura rasped, eyes crazed; the fight went out of Marik's face, and he even looked a little lost. “I bloody hate it. I hate Marik-land, that perfect little world existing only in that pretty schizophrenic head of yours.”
His fist in Marik's shirt quivered; his eyes bored into Marik's own, through Marik's gaze, into a mind that Bakura took great pleasure in imagining perfectly empty. “I hate your sense of self-importance, when you're just lying to yourself about everything, every day! Marik, I--” For the first time, the words failed. “Marik, I hate you.”
With this final exhalation he pushed Marik away from him, as far as he could; Marik stumbled backwards and fell on his back atop the bed, arms splayed out, eyes gazing blankly at the ceiling. Bakura, unable to stand for shaking from hatred, toppled beside him. They lay side by side, staring up at nothingness. All was eerily, perfectly quiet.
They lay for minutes that felt like hours, not even looking at each other. Finally, Marik found his voice and spoke, albeit somewhat more feebly than usual.
“Hey, Bakura.”
“What, Marik.” Bakura looked up at the ceiling as if no sight before had ever fascinated him so much.
“We probably should have stuck to silent hatred. Eyes boring into each other. Teeth clenching.”
“I clenched my teeth plenty, Marik.”
“It's not always about you, Fluffy.”
“No,” Bakura admitted. “No it's not.”
They lay in silence for a while longer.
“Hey, Bakura.”
“Yes, Marik?”
“What are you going to do from now on? Now that the show won't be canceled, I mean.”
Marik sounded almost thoughtful; even with the “almost”, this was enough of a first to make Bakura at least attempt to look at him. “Scrape the barrel for every bit of screentime I can get, I suppose,” Bakura replied. “Know my fangirls appreciate those precious minutes far more than the wasted hours bestowed on Yugi. The same thing I've always done.”
“Oh.” Marik appeared to think about this. Bakura doubted this appearance. “Can I come too?”
“Come what?”
“Barrel scraping.” Marik's voice wavered, as if he were almost scared. “I'll be written out soon too, you know. I can feel it. And then I might return a few seasons later, a shadow of my former glory.” Although the two lay side-by-side, Marik sounded dim, far away. “I don't want that.”
“No,” sighed Bakura, remembering days spent in a hospital bed. “No, I suppose you wouldn't.”
“So I can come too?” Marik asked hopefully.
“I never said that.” Bakura sighed, relaxing into the sheets. “But yes. Yes, you can come too. Though I'm warning you: people will only be watching so they can see me.”
“Just keep telling yourself that, Kitty.”
Mark would have tagged along even if he'd been rejected, Bakura thought with resignation, letting acceptance of the situation sink in. Besides....Well, if Marik had been written out of the show....
“I hate you, Marik,” Bakura admitted softly. The night's activities were catching up on him, and on the body he occupied; he suddenly felt exhausted, unable to move any more. Just lying like this would be fine.
“I hate you too, Bakura.” The sheets rustled as Marik shifted his head to get more comfortable; he pulled over the fluffed pillow, now a bit worse for the wear from his squashing it, and placed it beneath his head. “Shall we defeat the Pharaoh tomorrow?”
“Whatever you want, Marik.” Bakura closed his eyes. “Just don't wake me before noon. And I never conquer arch-nemeses before I've had at least three cups of piping hot tea.”
“You are so very British. Your British-ness astounds the mind. Boggles it.”
“It doesn't take much.” Bakura sighed. “Good night, Marik. Remember. Noon.”
“Noon. I'll remember, Bakura.”
“You'd better.”
But Bakura knew Marik wouldn't remember. As soon as Marik had gotten up, that nasally voice would be screeching in Bakura's ear, prattling nonsense or about whatever banal yet bizarre dream he'd had, if people slow as Marik even dreamed to begin with. He'd probably even chide Bakura for sleeping in on such an important day, having just about run out of patience with ancient Egyptian spirits in pasty pretty-boys' bodies who didn't know how to seize the day properly...
Bakura, drifting off to sleep, simmered lightly. He hated Marik oh, so much.
And bugger, did it feel good.