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“Chocolate isn't a healthy diet." Bakura told you as he placed the bags of various groceries on the kitchen table. You, on the couch in the living room and wrapped in a light blue blanket, glare at him as he came around the corner, the oven door making a small slamming noise as it shut. “Oh don't be cross.”
“Then stop looking like you can be repelled by one.” you snarl at him. You were getting over a severe sinus infection, not used to the weather in Michigan. Bakura strolled over to the couch where you were sitting. He bent down and pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek. His lips were chapped and a little rough, but appreciated at the same time. A chocolate bar was placed in your hand, and you unwrapped and devoured it gluttonously. Sugar, that was what you were craving. Preferably molded into brown chocolate squares.
Bakura sat down beside you, keeping his distance and watching the television with obvious disinterest.
“And here I thought that Japanese television was mindless.” Bakura commented dryly, eyes flicking over the characters. He yawned and you sneered at him. You mumble something at him, but your mouth is clumsy and numb due to your exhaustion. “What?”
“I got the concert tickets that you wanted.” You repeat in a soft murmur, mouth dry and tasting of chocolate. Bakura reaches over to the end table and hands you a plastic water bottle and you take a careful drink of the clear, refreshing liquid.
“So you've been doing more than sitting on the couch and suffering?” Bakura asked as you cradled the bottle in your hands.
“Unfortunately, no.” You tell him, rolling your eyes. You clicked the remote to change the channel in time with an almost violently loud sneeze. Once, twice, three times in a row. Bakura lets out a surprised laugh.
“Are you going to sneeze yourself to death?” Bakura asked, looking at you with a bemused expression.
“At this rate, maybe.” You mutter, wrapping the blanket tighter around you. An arm settles around your shoulder and Bakura pulls you into a warm, awkward side hug.
“What made you change the channel to a baseball game?” Bakura asked, watching the batter swing the bat, sending the ball flying across the field with a sharp crack.
“Accident. Was looking for Whose Line Was It Anyway.” You tell him, and he reaches into your nest of blankets, fishing out the remote. You raise an eyebrow at him, but don't fight. You're too tired.
“Asshole.” you mutter, leaning against his shoulder sleepily.
“Proud of it. I wonder if Friday the 13 th is on?”
“Probably not.”
“Tsk. Dream crusher.” Bakura tells you, flicking through the channels.
“Murderer.”
“Arsonist.”
“Mediocre evil villain.” You whisper, and he looks down at you with a soft laugh.
“Mine.” he tells you, ruffling your hair, pulling the freshly washed strands through calloused fingers.
Today marked two years since the two of you met in Japan. You both had a plan-- something devious and cruel. Something that you desired to accomplish for selfish goals. Two months later, you left for the U.S., and Bakura came with you. There wasn't a romance between the two of you at first-- in fact, you weren't sure there was one now. It was funny, the way that events unfolded. Lke a map, showing you exactly where you need to go.