Good afternoon pineapples! Welcome to mine and Borath's (yes I know, I am not worthy) sandbox of cracky joy. We will be committing a whole host of fandom sins in this fic (character bashing, OOCness, gratuitous Japanese, mixing dub and sub...) but we hope you'll take it as it's meant - affectionately. There'll be a bunch of pairings (Borath's even letting me bring in some of the GX boys later), terrible fashion sense, sex, drugs and rock'n'roll. We're having a whale of a time writing this and we hope you enjoy reading.
In this chapter:
Thiefshipping, Peachshipping, Prideshipping, Darkshipping, Anzu-bashing, phallic symbols, meat and beer.
Thieves of Love
The Journey
Chapter 1 - Domino Rock City
Bakura had painted the garage black in preparation so that there would be no illusions as to what kind of music his band would be playing. He hadn't included Ryou in this colour scheming, but felt it a very mild retaliation to being told that he had to earn his own food and rent from now on. With his career options severely limited by legality (Condition 1 of having somewhere to live) and skillset ('Imprisoned in the Ra-forsaken Ring' didn't take up much CV space, despite how many years it covered), he'd decided to pursue something that he'd at least look good doing. After six months of religious practice with his new guitar (Ryou didn't need *all* those savings from his dead mother), Bakura decided he was ready to form his band and, inevitably, take the world by storm.
He'd put an ad in the back of several of the music magazines that left inkstains upon reading, shying away from the local newspaper so that one of Ryou's Bieber-loving friends wouldn't catch wind of his new career. Thieves of Love was having auditions whilst Ryou was at university, and he'd turned the garage and driveway into a stage-come-barbecue for the day. It had been ridiculously easy to relocate a set of drums from the shop across town (though he'd had to go back a month later because they hadn't had the colour he wanted), in addition to amps, microphones and a small collection of pretty guitars. The Thief King had moved into the digital age seamlessly, and now prodded meat on the barbecue whilst he waited. The fee for subjecting him to auditory Hell with only a slim chance of finding musical genius was meat and beer, and he was anticipating a good turnout.
Running his hands through his hair as he watched the burgers sizzle, wondering again if he should have taken that bandanna after all, he turned at the sound of an engine approaching. The dark, nondescript car slowed to a stop at the end of the driveway, and Bakura took a sip of warm bourbon as he watched. When the door finally opened, he grunted a laugh. "You have got to be kidding me."
A long, thin, black-booted leg exited the car, followed in due course by the rest of the body, revealing a tall brunette with bangs too long in the front. In his right hand he wielded like a sword his own customised pair of drumsticks, the brushed-chrome shaft lightly studded for grip, the weight balanced by the mathematically precise taper of the hickory wood to its triangular tip. The sticks felt so good in Kaiba's hands that he'd ordered a hundred identical pairs to be made lest they warp or splinter under heavy use.
Kaiba glanced around, taking in the surroundings. Someone had evidently gone to some small effort. The smell of meat drifted over, drawing Kaiba's attention to the white-haired freak behind the BBQ. "Thought you were dead," he muttered, but not wanting to push the issue in case of receiving another thorough grounding in ancient Egyptian history that he would rather do without.
He strode his determined way over to the barbecue, fixing Bakura with a cold blue gaze. "I'm here for the auditions," he growled, as if affronted at being asked to prove his worth. He folded his arms, tapping the drumsticks against a bicep impatiently. Kaiba hadn't initially wanted to drum. He'd had his heart set on being center stage: singing, lead guitar, or perhaps both. He was multi-talented after all. No-one paid attention to the guy on the stool at the back, except to make jokes about the use of drool as a spirit level. But somehow Mokuba had managed to convince him that was best, if he did want to return to KaibaCorp after his sabbatical was over. (Kaiba called it a sabbatical; Mokuba, spades being spades, called it a mid-life crisis.)
Bakura eyed the lanky form, managing through sheer force of habit and will to look down his nose at the notably taller man. The novelty of the situation alone kept his initial reaction in check. Kaiba in a rock band sounded like a one way ticket to un-fun off the bat, but the more he thought about it, the more appealing the notion became. Money, for a start. Kaiba had lots of it for touring buses, jets, prostitutes and drugs; not to mentioned his obsessive-compulsiveness to be the best at anything and everything he set his mind to. The special effects would be like being in the Shadow Realm all over again. Only with more groupies.
Finally, he jerked his head towards the black and silver drum set, the edges of the cymbals honed razor-sharp just because he could. "Go wail - pretend it's the Pharoah's face, if it helps," he drawled, swaggering over to the amps and toeing them on before sitting atop with his bourbon and burger. "I must say, Kaiba, I'd have thought this sort of 'frivolity' was beneath you, or is this your horizontal slide from making monsters child-friendly?"
"Whereas of course, it's a natural progression from tomb-robbing and homicide." Kaiba whirled the seat of the stool around until it reached an acceptable height for his frame, seating himself and giving the bass pedal a couple of taps to test the spring tension. Seeing no need to waste time on further pleasantries, he broke into a practiced routine: starting with a short fill, before moving into a measured regular beat to showcase his precision timing, then into faster fills and double bass beats. He finished with a blistering solo that defied all regular time signatures and musical convention before sitting back and waiting for the adulation which was surely his due.
Silence for several seconds as Bakura regarded him with folded arms, expression cool. Finally, he grunted. "And I thought you were boring." It was as close to a compliment as he would ever give. Trekking back to the barbecue, he reached into the cooler positioned behind and tossed one of the beer cans across to Kaiba: You're in. "So. Unless you've got Wayne Coyne trussed up in the boot, we're still in need of a third. At least." A smirk despite himself as he thought back to Malik.
Kaiba accepted the beer with a nod, briefly passing the chilled can over his forehead as beads of sweat were beginning to mat his hair to it. "Did you have many replies to the ad? You listed some exotic influences." The ring-pull released with a satisfying fwish. Kaiba drained half the can before leaving the kit and passing one of the multitude of guitars over to Bakura atop his amplifier throne. The challenge was clear: Show me what you can do.
Bakura held Kaiba's stare as the instrument was passed to him, making minute and relatively pointless adjustments that were more fetishised handling than tuning. After a few suspenseful plucks, he laid his callouses across the strings with the speed and dexterity of one experienced in bending delicate mechanisms to his will. Larceny had a great deal of transferable skills to shredding a guitar, it had turned out, his fingers moving as independently of one another as his mortal-coil ligaments would allow and his ears, tuned to the quietest rumble of a trap set off, striking and following every note in crescendo.
He'd spent so many hours practicing that Ryou had been completely unbruised for the better half of a year, and Malik had started putting his picture on milk cartons. How his former lover had achieved this, he wasn't entirely sure, but he suspected it had something to do with a Pritt stick, painstaking hours and a broken security camera in the shop down the road. The label he'd peeled off and shown Ryou this morning had had a particularly crude pornographic doodle etched in red (Malik probably thought 'that' was the most romantic medium) on the back.
To Kaiba's query, and speaking as if he hadn't just performed an impromptu solo that had made his own toes curl, Bakura shrugged fractionally. "There's just you, so far. I have Malik beseeching for bass, but I'm willing to wait for something new to catch my attention."
"Hmm," Kaiba's non-committal noise covered how impressed he was by the thief's fretboard exertions. Satisfied with the band's musical ability so far, he sat on the edge of the stage, one knee pulled up and lounging with the beer. He'd already tested his own staff as potential bandmates, but Isono's karaoke - despite being flamboyantly energetic - had left much to be desired. "I don't know who to suggest. That I can stand to spend time with, anyway." The thought of being trapped on a tourbus with the mutt Jounouchi was anathema to him. The mute assertion that Kaiba could, perhaps, be forced under certain conditions to associate with Bakura was left to hang in the warm air.
Bakura didn't volunteer the fact that his social circle was either dead, certifiable or a sworn enemy. It seemed implicit. "Mai's chest's an option," he threw out after a long silence, then sat up a little on the amps when he heard the distinctive, skin-crawling jingle of a bicycle bell being rung. The 'dancer' of the delusional group was descending. "How in Ra's name did she find out about this?"
"Oh god, no. Anything but that." Kaiba stared balefully down at the perky cheerleader. She had apparently dyed her hair black for the occasion, with a couple of hot pink streaks in her angular bangs.
Anzu parked her bike neatly at the bottom of the driveway, leaning against the gatepost. She balked a little at the malevolent glares she was getting from the assembled players. "Pull yourself together, girl," she told herself. "You're a showstopper, remember?" She was used to shows and auditions by now. Why should this one be any different?
IPod and speakers rescued from the bicycle's handlebar basket, the wannabe rock chick strutted towards the stage, head held high. She set the equipment down at the edge of the stage, speakers angled towards her, proxy monitors. "May I start?" She aimed her sweetest, most professional smile at the reluctant audience of two.
"No," Kaiba stated flatly. Anzu gamely took the refusal as sarcasm and pressed play. The squeal of violins indicated that she had thought the most appropriate choice to audition for a rock band was Britney Spears. Anzu bobbed about on her platform sandals, warming up as she waited for the vocal part to begin.
Her singing was utterly pedestrian, in Kaiba's opinion. She could hit the notes, but so could any girl in a karaoke bar. The way she delivered the lyrics was devoid of any sense of danger or lust, and the odd way she kept throwing her arms around while hopping from foot to foot reminded him less of a dance and more of someone desperately in need of the toilet. Any sex appeal the song might once have had was rendered utterly powerless by the smiling winks she kept giving him, more suited to a lounge act, preferably situated very far from Kaiba. Like Neptune.
Kaiba looked at Bakura to check he was suffering just as much before swinging a leg round, dashing the iPod off the stage. Anzu stared at him, shocked.
"I think we've heard enough." Kaiba couldn't even muster up a decent smirk.
Bakura cocked his head a little, the most he'd moved in the last soul-crushing minute (and he knew from soul crushing), to deliver his verdict. "There's a position open for my ashtray that I think you'd be *perfect* for," he smiled, purring the emphasis.
"Smoking's bad for you. You should take care of that body," Anzu started, before realising the slight. She pouted, a storm in her eyes, but a witty comeback eluded her. She jumped off the stage, picking up the smashed iPod and running down the driveway. The bicycle bell rang furiously as she headed off to see Yugi. He'd comfort her. And she couldn't let her black leather outfit go to waste.
"Knew I should have killed her. Can't see why Malik didn't toss her rainbow-sprouting body off the bloody blimp when he had the chance," the former Ring spirit muttered, necking another mouthful of bourbon and scratching a hand through his hair. Forgoing the fire of the barbecue entirely, Bakura took up a fistful of raw quarter-pounder from the pack and swallowed it with very little chewing. It was his equivalent of comfort eating, and his new mortal digestive system *would* learn to like it. Ryou had stopped vomiting eventually.
"I don't know why I didn't myself," Kaiba snorted. A few times he'd caught himself hoping the entire Scooby gang would just have been blown over the side. Only about half the finalists had been interesting to him as it was. Kaiba headed for the barbecue to check on the slightly more edible food. A little blackened on one side, but cooked at least. He tonged the burgers onto the warming rack, helping himself to one.
The second Bakura caught sight of Yami's very distinctive silhouette approaching, he shot Kaiba a look through his bangs that could topple Cairo. There was no mistaking the single-minded intent to win in Yami's stride. That and he'd put on, somehow, even more kohl.
"This is your fault. Somehow, this is your fault. These cretins can't have just stumbled upon my ad. They haven't got the collective imagination, let alone personality." Bakura arched a brow, back straightening with slit-eyed accusation. "You issued a challenge, didn't you? You're going to design some stupid rock band gaming system and hound anyone with a scrap of skill into playing you so that you can beat them. There is no other explanation for why the Pharaoh -" he stabbed one demonstrative finger, flecked with raw meat, "is trying out for Thieves of Love."
"You can't pin this one on me," Kaiba shot back icily. This was supposed to be his escape from the daily pressures of running a megacorporation, something based on teamwork and almost entirely non-competitive - apart from good-natured rivalry over the amount of groupies you could fit in your hotel room, or the number of beers you could drink before needing to piss. "Why did you call the band that anyway? It's a risible name. I would have thought something like Blood-rusted Nails would have been more your style." He watched closely as Yami approached, drawn as ever to his confidence and directness. It must have been Mokuba, he thought. For whatever reason, his little brother liked the Pharoah, and since Kaiba had begrudgingly admitted that perhaps he maybe did consider Yami a friend Mokuba had been trying to get the two in the same room. Apparently friends should want to actually spend time with each other. Kaiba snorted at the idea of himself and Yami "just hanging out", as Mokuba put it.
The Pharaoh was a paradox in his ability to bluff with absolutely assuredness whilst being utterly incapable of masking surprise, giving as much away in a full-body jerk as in the widening of his eyes. It was a small response that he showed now towards Kaiba's presence, but a response all the same.
"Kaiba? What are you doing here?" The question came out without any inflection of suspicion - just pure astonishment. Yami saw the drumsticks, but decided that the question still stood.
Bakura came to stand almost on the Pharaoh's toes, the barest flicker of Shadow magic pulling out the bottom of his jacket so that it flared dramatically. "Kaiba's had a new calling. What's your excuse?"
Yami's mouth opened fractionally with a retort, but the remark died on his tongue and he glanced away. He was here for much the same reason that he suspected Bakura was - they were physical presences in this world, now, no longer slave to the Millennium Items or bound to their Hikaris. With the Shadow Games over in every sense and their occupancy as spirits finished, they had to find a new purpose in their lives. Not to mention a means to pay the rent.
"Exploring a possibility, Bakura, much as I believe you are also doing," he replied at last, arching a brow to indicate the other's guitar.
A smirk. "No, Pharaoh. I'm doing this because I make it look good. You're going to have to do better than that, however, to earn your place as a Thief of Love."
Yami frowned a little, trying to work out if that was Bakura's backwards way of saying he was attractive, before shaking the thought off and holding up a CD. "I can't play an instrument."
The admission made Bakura grin outright, snatching the silver disc away and moving to the player tucked behind the amps. He sat atop them and clicked the button with his heel, bourbon held out in challenge. His stance faltered a bit when the same damn violins came out, a shudder running across his shoulders. "On the stage. I want a good view of every cringing moment."
Yami did as he was bid, standing perfectly still with closed eyes whilst intro played out, as if composing some internal force. When the lyrics finally came, he did not attempt to mimic the recorded voice but sang with it, in a lower and richer pitch. His cultured accent lilted over the words, bringing forth qualities in the song that Anzu had outright murdered only minutes ago.
It was mesmerizing, Kaiba found. Those velvet tones, the same he'd heard his own judgement delivered in, the same he'd later heard talking him down from his path of self-destruction, bending and weaving with the tune. It felt intensely personal, like the lyrics were aimed just at him.
Kaiba found the old competitive spirit rising within him, as it always did in Yami's intoxicating presence. A drummer's role was to keep the beat, a role subservient to the glory of the lead singer. With Yami on vocals, would Kaiba be able to rein in the impulse to fight, to strike the mylar skins harder and faster in hopes of surpassing him? He wasn't sure. But it promised to be exhilarating to find out.
Kaiba consciously reset his jawline to stoic. It wouldn't do to have Yami finish the song and find his rival staring at him in slack-jawed amazement. He watched the rest of the performance in silence, taking in the musical cadences and dynamic nuances, following Yami's every small motion. He wondered, as so many times before, how such a small frame could exude so much charisma and... stage presence. That was it. He had to be their singer.
Experimenting, Bakura held the bottle up so that the bourbon covered Yami's head and neck, anonymizing the undulating body shifting with the thick fluidity of melted metal. Realising that he'd been sucking his tongue as these thoughts traipsed through his head, Bakura bit the tip hard enough to cut them off and then agitated the wound with a mouthful of bourbon. It was a sickly thing to realise that when the Pharaoh wasn't kicking his DM arse, spouting about 'right' or standing next to Anzu, he was actually quite...
More bourbon. Lots more bourbon.
As the song finished, Kaiba turned to Bakura, blue eyes uncompromisingly commanding. "We must have him," he growled, adding defensively: "You saw that."
Not missing the flush that momentarily graced the CEO's cheekbones, Bakura moved to stand beneath the stage directly in front of Yami. They both stood with matching feet-apart, folded arm stances, silently assessing one another. Finally, he grunted, "fine: you're our lead on two conditions." Yami nodded, though cautiously. "You're not a child king anymore and lead singer doesn't mean 'in charge'. You defer to me."
"Only on band matters," Yami interjected quickly.
Bakura waved him off. "Yes, fine. Second condition: Kaiba's in charge of your wardrobe."
Yami blinked at that, arms dropping to his sides as he looked between the thief king and his old rival. "What? I'm not some doll for-"
"Grudging as I am to acknowledge two of Kaiba's positive attributes in the same hour, he does have infinitely more fashion sense than you," Bakura explained, giving the stage his back as he walked back to Kaiba and the amps. The grin he slid the taller man conveyed his secondary motivation for handing Yami over to him to play dress up: sheer personal entertainment.
Kaiba's thin lips curled into a smirk. He could have fun with this one. The school uniform look might have worked for AC/DC but it wouldn't cut it for the Thieves. Yami really needed to let go of high school already. "Say I get to restyle his hair, too," he rejoined, letting the contemptuous tone of his voice mask the appreciative way he looked Yami over from the tri-coloured spikes to studded black boots. He looked good in leather trousers, it had to be said.
Bakura, now returned to his seat atop the throne of amps, replied, "Yes, fine. Pedicure as well, if you're that invested."
Skirting that issue for now, Kaiba addressed the pharoah directly. "You do know more than teen girl-pop, I assume?" As interesting as Yami's rendition had been, Kaiba was protective of his credibility. Which was something he probably should have thought about before leaving his multi-million-yen company to join a rock band.