Hey everyone! So I'm trying to write more at the moment, and this came out of two prompt generators. One was absolutely hilarious and had a line "two sexy uncles laughing to the beat" so I decided to use that as a title, and the second was the mess x perfectionist prompt.

In this universe, none of the DM things happened, but all the characters still exist in the modern setting. I started this as a short story and now it's 3 chapters long but let's see how far it actually goes lmao. Hope you enjoy! (Sorry to any Duke Devlin fans, I did him dirty here)

CW: Relatively heavy drinking, light sexual commentary, attempted one-night stand

Note: I forgot to post this fic here completely so you're getting all nine chapters at once. Enjoy binging I guess lmao.

-----

Malik leaned his head back, a sigh dripping from his throat, as his alarm chimed from his pocket. He didn't realise it had gotten so late.

He quickly turned it off without taking out his phone and glanced at the work in front of him. The tome was old; not so old that the pages were crumbling, so not his oldest, but certainly one of them. The notepad next to it, though, was brand new - only a few pages in with immaculate, colour-coordinated notes and even additional sticky notes for theories or drawings for symbols Malik wanted to check later. He hadn't done nearly as much as he'd wanted to. Someone hadn't done their job right at the archive and forgot to register him for access to the newly discovered tome, and he'd wasted a few hours with due diligence and forms he'd already signed to be allowed access.

He stretched and his lower back popped. With his late start, Malik had forgone breaks in order to get more work in, and he was still behind. Idiots. Carefully, Malik closed the tome and stood up, returning it to its rightful shelf before he peeled off his gloves and dropped them into the nearby bin.

No food or drink was allowed, so most of its content was similar silicone gloves or crumpled pieces of paper from other patrons. Malik made his way up out of the archive, giving a nod to the receptionist as he signed out before he stepped out into the brisk winter air. He let out a breath, and it fogged ahead of him in the light of the sunset. Cars were already jammed along the street, racing one another at a snail's pace to get home from work, and Malik held back a sneer. Traffic was the worst part of the city - not getting stuck in it, but the noise, the smell. He reached up and pulled his hair free of the ponytail he'd tied it into for work, fluffing it as it danced around his shoulders. He had to get his computer bag back from the office before he walked home, but it wasn't a long detour, thankfully, so he began walking, heels clicking on the Domino pavement.

This translation gig wasn't what he'd imagined for himself as a child, enraptured by bright colours and soft fabrics, but his sister was persistent, and once he got out of Egypt and actually started his own business, Malik was less restrained in what he could wear, so he took that as a win. Not that he'd started his own translation company because he wanted to wear skirts and dresses to work, though it had been a factor - no, he was just so sick of sloppy work, underpaid colleagues, sneering uncles, and everything that came with working in Japanese offices. He looked up as he neared his building.

Malik was skilled in translation, and his brother was fantastic at business, and their company had skyrocketed only a few years after setting up. They went from owning a few small offices in a bad district to an entire building in the business sector of Domino, employing a few hundred academics and translators, for research, politics, history and publishing alike. Malik preferred to carouse with other professionals, creating contacts wherever he could, preferably with a drink in hand, but he picked up projects whenever they interested him. Rishid, on the other hand, stuck to managing every minute detail behind the scenes, from negotiating contracts to working with their social media team on brand image.

The secretary at the front desk bowed to Malik as he entered the building, and he gave her a single nod before hitting the elevator button and riding it straight to the top floor. There were only a few offices there - Rishid's, the CFO, COO, and Malik's. Malik didn't bother checking to see if Rishid was still there, eager to get home, and walked straight through the heavy oaken door marked with his own name.

He'd snagged the corner office, calling dibs like a child the second he'd seen it. Huge floor-to-ceiling windows lined half of it, allowing plenty of natural light into the room. The walls were sparsely decorated with a few pieces he'd chosen himself when he'd gone to galleries, and a handful of rare plants dotted the room that he took care to tend to whenever needed. His computer bag was right where he'd left it, by the heavy oak desk, and he slipped his notebook into it before picking it up and finally checking his phone. Six thirty. Time to go.

Just before he could grab his coat, a knock on the door caught his attention. Odd. "Come in."

The door opened, and Rishid peered in. "Ah, Malik, I thought it was you."

Malik frowned and set his bag down again. "Rishid? I thought you'd left already."

"I had a last-minute appointment." Rishid gave him a smile. "I figured it was only best to introduce you."

Right, the collaboration with Domino City Museum. Malik had half-forgotten in the stress surrounding the tome. He sighed and leaned against his desk, smoothing any wrinkles out of his black skirt. "I was about to head home."

"It will only take a moment," Rishid told him, despite clearly seeing Malik was already resigned to the fact.

Malik nodded and rolled his shoulders. "Alright, send them in."

Rishid opened the door further and stepped into the office, followed quickly by a smaller man. "Malik, this is Ryou Bakura from Domino City Museum. Ryou, this is Malik Ishtar. You'll be working together on the hieroglyph translations."

"Nice to meet you." Ryou smiled.

Malik's gaze had to drop from Rishid to Ryou, almost a whole foot. His expectations fell a similar amount. Ryou's hair was bone white and tied back into a messy bun, and messy it was, with so many strands poking out that Malik doubted the majority of it was even tied up anymore. Purple bags stained the bottom of Ryou's eyes, and his lips were chapped, his skin almost as pale as his hair. His sweater was untucked and frayed, whether by use or age was unintelligible, and his jeans had a handful of clear stains on them. And converse. What kind of grown man wore converse?

"A pleasure," Malik responded dryly. He met Ryou's gaze again. "Are you an intern?" He couldn't stand when they sent him interns.

"Oh, um..." Ryou chuckled. "No, actually. I'm one of the tenured doctors with the museum."

Interesting. His work should be manageable, at least, if that was the case. Malik folded his arms. "Works published?"

"A few articles and dissertations," Ryou replied. "I'm working on a book, but it's still going through editing at the moment."

Rishid was giving Malik that narrow look that practically screamed 'be nice', but Malik was tired and still annoyed, and his back was killing him from hunching over that manuscript with no breaks for hours. Malik huffed and pulled on his jacket, grabbing his computer bag again. "Work starts at eight-thirty tomorrow. Break at eleven, lunch at two, and finish at six. Wear something more respectable. We have an image to maintain." With that, he strode past Ryou and his brother to the elevator, not bothering to say goodbye.

It would be interesting to see how long this translator would last, at the very least, or if the museum had learned from last time and actually sent him one of their best.

Somehow, Malik doubted it.

-----

Ryou took a breath, standing outside Malik's office with two takeaway cups in hand. After Malik had shoved past him the day before, Rishid had apologised profusely and assured him Malik was usually nicer, but Ryou doubted it. Maybe he pretended to be nicer, but nothing about Malik was nice. Still, he was to be working with Malik for at least a few weeks, so he may as well try.

Ryou glanced at the door once more, the gold nameplate proclaiming that it was in fact Malik Ishtar's office, before carefully opening it with his elbow and backing into the office.

Malik was already at his desk, typing away at his computer, when Ryou entered, and he spared Ryou a cursory glance. "You're early."

"You said eight-thirty," Ryou sighed. He glanced around. A spare desk had already been set up for him close to the windows, so he put the coffee cups on that. "From experience, that means eight-twenty."

Malik hummed and continued typing for a moment before shutting his laptop. "Well, you're clearly more competent than the last fool your museum sent to work with me, so I suppose I should be grateful."

Ryou scoffed. "Yes, you should." He turned to face Malik. "I was the only one willing to work with you after you sent Anzu home crying several nights."

Malik rolled his eyes, and they glinted purple in the sunlight. "She should have been better at her job then." He walked around the table, coming into full view.

Although Ryou had heard stories, and of course seen Malik in a skirt the previous evening, he hadn't been entirely sure that the rumours about him were true. Still, there Malik stood in a stunning purple plaid dress with lantern sleeves. The neck stretched into a low turtleneck, revealing a glimpse of a gold collar underneath that matched the belt and bracelets Malik wore, and amethyst stones hung from his ears to match his eyes. His cream heels gave him an extra few inches, so he really did look down at Ryou as he spoke.

"I've been informed I could have been... more polite yesterday. I apologise - you caught me on a bad day."

"It seemed so," Ryou agreed. "I hear you can usually manipulate much better."

Malik's eyes narrowed, but his purple-stained lips quirked up a touch. "And you came dressed better today."

Ryou glanced down. He'd worn pretty much the same as the day earlier, with a newer sweater vest and shirt, and jeans he hadn't managed to spill coffee on just yet. His hair was also in a better state, having not had to sprint to make his bus. "Better?"

"Better," Malik agreed, "but not good. Is that all you own?"

Ryou huffed. "Us academics can't all afford your designer wardrobe."

Malik hummed and finally turned away, piercing gaze releasing Ryou as it was lifted. "Well, at least they sent me someone who can think for themselves this time."

"Again," Ryou forced out, "they didn't send me. I was the only one willing to put up with your shit."

"And why is that?" Malik asked, back still turned to Ryou. He bent down to reach into the drawers in his desk, and Ryou quickly looked away.

"One, because I don't care about how you dress, and two, you're a damn good translator," Ryou listed. "One of the best I've seen. It would be a shame to wreck a great collaboration just because of your personality."

Malik snorted and stood upright again with a folder of notes and a fresh notebook. "Well, I hope your work speaks better for itself than your fashion style." He walked back to Ryou's desk and placed the folder and notebooks on it. "We only have a few weeks to get the translations perfect from this excavation. Photos and descriptions are inside, along with references from similar tombs."

"Perfect." Ryou picked up one of the coffee cups and handed it to Malik. Malik's eyebrow arched as he took it. "I figured you might enjoy a caffeine burst before we start."

Malik took a sip and hummed, eyes slipping closed. "Nutmeg roast?"

Ryou nodded. "You looked like a nutmeg roast kind of person."

"What does that mean?" Malik snorted.

"Exactly what it sounds like." Ryou beamed and rounded his own desk to sit down. "Do you want to join me or work on your own?"

"I'll work on my own," Malik replied. "We can cross-examine at lunch, and in the mornings for the previous evening's work, but otherwise I find working alone far more productive."

"Alright." Ryou shrugged and sipped his own coffee, or rather hot chocolate with four shots of espresso in it, before opening his folder. As promised, everything Ryou would need was inside, and his desk was fully stocked with more stationery than he could use in a year.

"Oh," Malik called, "and keep your notes legible."

Ryou rolled his eyes as he opened the notebook and a new pen. "I always do."

-----

Malik had no idea what Ryou viewed as illegible, but he knew he never wanted to see it. Ryou's notes were scribbled in the margins and all over the page in one or two colours, with random phrases and thoughts incomprehensible from the rest of his notes.

When Ryou saw Malik's notes, his eyes had widened, a finger trailing delicately down the page as he read, as though afraid to smudge the writing. Meanwhile, Malik was pretty sure Ryou's notes couldn't be less difficult to read if he tore the page into shreds and tried to piece it back together like a puzzle. When he pointed out several mistakes, Ryou simply shrugged and scribbled his own theory out to fix it, as though it meant nothing. When asked about it, he'd said, "Perfection isn't what we're looking for in the first run-through. We need a general understanding before it can be perfect." Fucking ridiculous. You couldn't get a general understanding of linguistics without perfection.

Maybe that was why, when Bakura invited him out, Malik agreed without their usual back-and-forth game.

He quickly changed from his work clothes into something more appropriate - a black pleather mini skirt, a violet UV-reactive crop top, fishnet tights, and the black-and-white striped jacket that made Bakura refer to him as Beetlejuice at least once whenever he wore it. It looked good enough for Malik to absorb the comments each time. Paired with knee-high boots that clung to his skin with a watery sheen, Malik made his way down to Nova. It was the only decent gay club in Domino, or so they'd discovered after a few trips to each one, so it became their go-to hangout spot unless there was an event or straight colleague involved.

Not that the latter had even happened, but they planned for it. Malik had no intentions of becoming that asshole who brought straight girls to a gay bar.

He shivered outside in the line for a few minutes before being ushered inside, and he immediately bypassed the coat check to make his way to the bar. The crop top alone didn't cover his back entirely, so he'd be keeping the coat no matter how hot it got. Sure enough, just as he received his first glass of whiskey, someone slid into the chair next to him.

"'Sup, Beetlejuice?"

"Never gets old." Malik took a sip of whiskey. He always ordered the expensive stuff first, until he was drunk enough not to give a shit what he was tasting.

Bakura clicked his tongue and threw Malik a wink, silver hair spilling down his back in wild curls. "You know you love it."

Malik hummed, gaze dragging down Bakura's body. His usual tight ripped jeans and fishnet tank, with some new spiked bracelets and work boots. "You never change."

"My outfit or my jokes? Because either way, it's because they're classics." Bakura shot Malik with his finger. "Besides, I never heard you complaining about this outfit last time you dragged me home in it."

Malik huffed. "That was then, this is now. You'd think dating a fashion designer would actually make you dress better."

"Hey, for your information, Touma enjoyed how I dressed." Bakura grabbed the martini that was handed to him and drank half of it in one mouthful. "Even if he turned out to be a prick in the end."

Malik gave a cursory glance over the crowd. The usual sub-par losers were out, grinding up against partners or friends, but he could spot one or two more palatable options in the crowd of strobe lights. "So are we finding a rebound for you tonight?"

"No, Touma was like... three partners ago," Bakura reminded him. "I'm dating a game designer now. Yugi - short, spiky hair?"

"Ah." Malik nodded, a vague memory providing a blurry image of Bakura's new boyfriend. "Right."

"What about you?" Bakura swung back, holding himself up by his fingertips beneath the bar counter. "I can already spot someone you'd like."

"Oh?" Malik set his whiskey on the bar and turned, though he had no intention of bringing anyone home for the night. "Where?"

"White hair, over by the record player."

Malik glanced and- no. A man stood, bent over the record machine to make a selection, ass sticking out in form-fitting leather pants. He wore a teal blazer with sleeves rolled up over a purple shirt, with matching converse of course, and his hair was loose and fluffy, hanging down to his lower back. When he stood, glittery eyeshadow shone under the light, and he'd done some kind of makeup that reflected UV like Malik's shirt did, accentuating the bags under his eyes rather than trying to hide them.

"No fucking way."

Bakura glanced over at him. "What?"

Malik huffed and drained the end of his whiskey, signalling for another. "I work with him," Malik muttered. "Temporarily. He's with the museum."

Bakura gave a low whistle. "Damn. I don't know, I think that ass is a reasonable excuse for breaking your no fraternising with coworkers policy."

"Please," Malik scoffed. "Even if he wasn't, I wouldn't go anywhere near that mess."

"Like you're any better," Bakura snorted. "You just hide it behind obsessive perfectionism. You're just as human as the rest of us."

Malik sneered at the mere thought of it and downed the next whiskey as soon as it was in his hand. "Another," he told the barkeeper. "Double, please."

"Damn, what did this kid do to get under your skin?" Bakura leaned into Malik.

"He's sloppy." Malik scowled at Bakura. "Worse than you. I almost thought I was looking at a new language when I saw his notes. He's clumsy, he doesn't care if he makes mistakes-"

"He doesn't talk back?" Bakura guessed.

Malik ran a hand through his hair. "No," he conceded. "That's the one thing he's good at."

"About fucking time." Bakura finished his martini. "You need someone like that at work. You're too uptight for your own good."

"Fuck off." Malik tossed his hair over his shoulder. "I'm perfectly fine. My work speaks for itself."

Bakura hummed. "Until you make a mistake because you're overworking."

"That isn't going to happen." Malik rolled his eyes. "I take plenty of breaks-"

"For your back." Bakura's voice was softer now, which Malik appreciated. What he didn't fucking appreciate was Bakura bringing it up in the first place. "Not because you need to stop."

"I'm fine," Malik insisted through gritted teeth. "I came out for a break, didn't I?" He threw back the double whiskey, leaving the empty glass at the bar as he stepped down from the stool. "Are you coming to dance or not?"

Bakura shook his head. "Sure," he sighed. "I guess." He followed Malik onto the dance floor, both hanging around the edge, so they weren't pressed into strangers in the throng of people. Even as Malik tried to lose himself in the music, however, he found his gaze drifting over to the record player, where Ryou still hovered, dancing with a small group of people in varying styles of dress.

At some stage, Malik must have stared a little too long, because Ryou's gaze met his and his eyes widened for a second. Still, a friendly smile crossed his face, and he lifted his hand in a small wave.

Malik simply offered him a tiny nod, cheeks hot, before whipping back to face Bakura. He wasn't staring because Ryou was hot. Even though he was. Objectively, in a sexy zombie kind of way. No, it was just because Malik wasn't used to running into colleagues at gay bars. That was all.

Despite his initial intentions to not bring anyone home, when Bakura wandered off for a drink, some punk dressed in red and leather with sleek black hair danced up next to him, and Malik shortly found himself grinding back into the man. The other man teased his hands up Malik's chest, and Malik twisted to nibble his neck.

"How about," Malik murmured, "you take me back to yours?"

The man's face split into a wide grin and he nodded, leading Malik by the arm out of the bar. He risked one more glance at Ryou to see the other man staring at him. Malik quickly turned away in time to see Bakura give him a thumbs-up just before the door shut behind them.

Malik hummed in the cool air, stretching a touch. "So, where do you live?"

"North Domino," the man replied. Okay, the dodgy side of the city, but Malik had lived there before. He could handle a night there. The man leaned in, and a previously-hidden dice earring swung by his chin. "Name's Duke. Duke Devlin. What about you?"

Malik cringed and looked down. Oh, fuck, his entire outfit was dice-themed. How had he missed that? "On second thought," he said, slowly, taking a step back, "I'm good." He walked back into the club before Duke, Duke Devlin could protest and immediately found Bakura by the bar. "Hey."

"Hey." Bakura blinked but slid one of his drinks over to Malik. "What happened?"

Malik's nose scrunched up as he took a sip of his drink. "His entire outfit was dice themed."

Bakura snorted. "Welcome to Domino - home to the extremest of gamers."

Malik sighed and pressed the cool glass to his forehead. "Sometimes I hate this fucking city."

"Quit bitching." Bakura bumped Malik with his hip as he stood up. "Come on. If you're staying, we may as well dance more."

Malik cringed at the thought. The noise was just beginning to hit a level of 'too much' as he began to sober up, and as light as they were, the fishnets were making his legs itch. "You go ahead. I'll join you in a few."

Bakura shrugged and wandered back to the dance floor with his drink while Malik ordered another. When he looked back towards the record player, Ryou was gone.

Good. Malik tried to ignore the odd heavy feeling in his chest. He wanted a distraction from Ryou and his work - not to have to stare at him all night. This was... this was a good thing.