AN: Hello all! It's been a while, I know. The fandom has evolved so much since I was heavily involved and I've been a bit nervous about entering it again, but after a wonderful week with the harlequin demon. when she came to visit, we decided to co write a fic together (eep!) and I thought I'd try and dip my toes in by doing one of those 'just sit down and write' things that normal writers do. Which means that this is hot off the presses and I just finished it right now, so it's not been edited. Eep. Hope you like it?
For Arie, as always.
Bakura is nothing but a dirty, rotten, thief.
Bakura the criminal. Bakura the cheat.
He's getting a pretty nice collection, if he does say so himself. A good few years of card games and murder will get you so far. It takes something else to be a true Thief King. The age-old name rolls on his new tongue: Thief King. It tastes rusty. No; Bakura is invisible. Bakura is irresistible. Bakura has the eyes of a magpie. His feathers twitch.
His blood is made of silver and gold; of forgotten screams and a warm embrace. At least, that what he dreams of; tubes of veins studded with jewels; lungs laced with silk; bones of marble. A treasure chest heart. But Bakura doesn't have a body, doesn't have breath of his own. So Bakura steals. Bakura the body snatcher. Bakura stole dolls, stole a sister's love, stole grief and confusion and the banality of growing up. Bakura even stole a name.
Bakura steals, because Bakura doesn't share.
It isn't as exciting as it was in Egypt, silver contrasted with endless golden desert. There's a system now, of grey brick and endless black nights; not the thrill of getting caught red handed (fistfuls of jewels like breadcrumbs behind him, digging into his palms and getting redder and redder as he howls with ferocity at the grinning moon) in the blue hot heat of the chase. So Bakura – Bakura moves with the times. Bakura keeps it exciting. Sure, Bakura pickpockets and lies and gets his host into trouble and leaves him to hide fistfuls of money in his pillowcase, in the bottom of his wardrobe and tucked away under floorboards, trying to ignore the hollow tin laugh in his mind.
But Bakura has his eye on another prize.
Bakura preens, the muscles of his wings restless underneath their black and white sheen. Bakura meets a Golden Boy who likes to steal secrets. The Highwayman meets a victim on a cool, promising night - and oh, it's so much fun, isn't it? The Golden Boy has a secret of his own. Bakura is going to break him open and gorge on his insides and then there won't be any secrets left because they'll be glowing bronze and yellow on his teeth and his mouth and down his throat. Ryou's throat. Whatever.
The boy steals secrets, too. He gets into people's minds, into the darkest parts of themselves and finds dark purple amethysts hidden inside skeletons. But he doesn't keep them for himself. He leaves them where he found them, and Bakura knows why. Bakura knows he has some of his own, the Golden Boy, written in stone and locked away in a tomb somewhere back home. Bakura wish he knew how that felt. Bakura wears his secret around his neck. Bakura is going to find them.
He steals touches. It's something he's never done before. Makes excuses to touch the small of his back, touches the backs of their hands together when they walk. Sometimes, when the Golden Boy is pretending to sleep, Bakura brushes hair away from his eyes. Later, much later, the Golden Boy steals a kiss, but Bakura is going to take that as a victory for the Thief King because he takes his whole body afterwards. He makes the boy laugh and his eyes sparkle and Bakura thinks, one day I'm going to take your eyes and wear them as a ring.
Bakura, being a collector of souls, takes that from him too; watches his plans fail time after time and grins to himself as he descends into madness. Bakura got bored of pretty things. Bakura wants something scarred. He wants something with a story. Bakura steals the Golden Boy's sanity and now he's a velvet indigo (Bakura won't ever admit missing tender lilac; won't even let soft petal lips enter his stolen dreams). Bakura fights to get Golden Sunshine back because he's gone complacent; the blinding yellow of insanity too garish for Bakura's new, refined, sophisticated palate.
Then one day, Bakura doesn't need to steal at all. The boy kisses him softly, sweetly, on the corner of his mouth, then suddenly hard and fast with teeth and no purpose and sliding fabric and more and more of that perfect, shining, glistening golden skin is revealed and it's his, you know, and then the Golden Boy turns and he's suddenly – not so Golden. Bakura's precious artefact has been scratched. His prize has been damaged. Marik's secret has been revealed and Gods, Bakura didn't have to even take it. Marik gave it to him. Bakura is disgusted. Marik kisses him again but his eyes have lost their value. The Golden Boy, circa endless possibility, is worthless. Marik is not an object. Marik has feeling.
So Bakura does what he's been working for all this time. Bakura takes what he wants like always and feels it settle dark and cold next to his own, borrowed not quite beating one, that's not filled with fine thread and encrusted with diamonds but blood. Bakura steals his heart.
Bakura wins.
Bakura always wins.
Dirty, rotten thief.