AN: Cowritten with Taemanaku.
Malik didn't bother shutting off the engine. In a moment, Bakura would come bounding out the back door, storm through the dimly lit parking lot, and shout "Go!" before he'd even mounted the back seat. Forget strapping on the helmet. Forget saying, "Hey, thanks for waiting." With him, each move was rapid fire.
So Malik waited with a cigarette between his lips and the keys jangling in his pocket. The night was still young. Past midnight, at most. They'd have enough time to swipe a bottle of Shochu on the way home and count all the yen while warming their feet under the kotatsu table.
Malik shivered and wrapped his leather jacket tighter around himself. December was rapidly maturing, though if he had to guess the date, it would be like catching the smoke billowing from the tip of his cigarette. And he didn't give enough of a fuck to try.
Abruptly, the back door of the Sukiya restaurant unlatched and a thin, hooded man slipped out, his unnaturally bright, red hair burning under the faint porch light. Malik flicked the cigarette to the ground and snapped the kickstand back with the heel of his boot.
Bakura slammed down behind Malik, and barked, "Alright, let's go."
"I don't know why you get so uptight," Malik remarked, switching on the headlights. "We're in Roppongi, for the sake of the gods. I doubt anyone heard you."
Bakura snorted, and Malik knew that when he tried to fight Bakura's propensity for vigilance, he was fighting three thousand years of it.
"Get going already."
"Hang on," Malik said.
Malik felt a pair of arms tentatively coil around his midriff, and he waited until the grip was tight before he jerked the front wheel to the left, revved up the engine, and tore out of the parking lot.
As with many things, Bakura had a peculiar perspective on physical contact. Sex was fine, but touching was not. He avoided Malik like a parasite until they got into bed, where all bets were off and Bakura's fingers were persistently on him. When the goal was skin sliding, rubbing, slipping against skin—that was okay. Otherwise, Bakura would allow only the briefest of touches before snapping away.
"How much do you figure?" Malik shouted into the wind. The machine hummed under his hands while Bakura's heart drummed against his back.
"We'll see," Bakura shouted back. "Maybe ninety thousand, if we're lucky."
Malik smirked and twisted the right grip downward, accelerating. "It's us. We're never lucky."
The bottle of Shochu perfectly complemented the remainder of their night. Around six in the morning, Malik pulled a small, laminated box from the closet and slid it across the table toward Bakura. The polished rubberwood surface was streaked with liquor and cigarette ashes; scattered across it was an alcohol-drenched deck of cards, and on the floor were neat little piles of yen.
Ninety-seven thousand, three hundred and twenty of them. That would last them the week, at least. Although, as usual, Bakura would store most of it.
The storing habit wasn't unusual for him. Bakura must have behaved just the same when he'd lived and robbed in Ancient Egypt. And after being defeated in the Memory World and then somehow returning—(neither of them questioned why or how it had happened, Malik simply accepting Bakura back into his life as his partner in crime when he'd shown up on his doorstep one day with no knowledge or explanation of how he'd come to be there)—his habits had become even more extreme. He moved with more caution, and with purpose, not interested in anything other than accomplishing solely that which needed to be accomplished.
His manner of doing things had become more severe in other ways, too- the sharp edge of his words had dulled, and he skirted danger more often instead of running headlong into it. The result wasn't obvious—or wouldn't be to anyone who didn't know him like Malik did—but it meant that when it came to robbing, Bakura only used the money for necessities, and the rest he stored.
Malik only minded the habit in the sense that he wanted something more luxurious than the small, simply-furnished apartment and the unremarkable clothes he wore. His entire childhood had already been spent having that and less.
He'd had money in the in the beginning, of course. As the leader of the tomb keepers clan, he'd had access to riches almost beyond imagining. Not to mention all the rare Duel Monsters cards he'd had. But, in a fit of pique, he'd burned every one of the cards, and donated nearly all the money to charity. At the time, he'd hated every single thing that reminded him of his past, or his duties, or where he had come from, or his former criminal tendencies, and he'd wanted to start fresh and to prove he could make it on his own.
That was before he'd opened his door to find a pair of all too familiar crimson eyes staring back at him, and an hour of panting and sweating and spit-slick kisses later he'd suddenly realized how bored and listless and not himself he'd felt since he'd been trying to make an honest go of it.
So they'd left Egypt together, the place having too many bad memories for both of them, and settled in Japan, if only because it was familiar enough to be comfortable but not so familiar as to bring with it the constant oppression and weight of their pasts.
But there was no sense in dwelling on any of that anymore. The money was gone, and at least donating it had probably done some good for some queer kids, as well as the fact that the generous act had pleased and impressed Rishid and Ishizu—
Malik shook his head and cut off the thought, focusing his attention back on Bakura.
Bakura raised an eyebrow at the image on the laminated box Malik had presented, casually swirling the scant liquid in the Shochu bottle.
"Black? Are you sure?" he asked.
"Yes." Malik drew out the word overdramatically. "It'll be sexy as hell."
"Mm?" Bakura looked at him through eyes lidded with liquor and lust.
"Plus," Malik continued, ripping off the top of the box. "We can keep up our little tradition afterward."
The Shochu bottle smacked onto the table with a resounding thump and Bakura rose to his feet. Malik knew he wouldn't have to speak twice when bringing up sex.
Ten minutes later, Malik was sitting hot and snug under the heater of the kotatsu table, impatiently raking a nail over the empty glass bottle, while Bakura applied glob after glob of coloring agent to his hair, splashing bits across the table. Malik had had red hair a couple months previous, similar to Bakura's current dye job but a bit darker, and it had been exciting for a while. Malik had spiked it a few times and had found Bakura's craving hands to be delicious and satisfying. But Bakura owned the red hair. He wore it much better than Malik did.
At first, the hair dye was an attempt to blend in better. While Roppongi was packed with exotic restaurants and dance clubs—the perfect haven for the casual foreigner, thirsty and begging for more parties, more alcohol, more pleasure—and although crime was hardly even considered covert around here, it was still smart to change one's appearance every once in a while.
But now the dye was for something else, too.
After Bakura finished smearing and rolling the mixture all over his scalp, Malik waited for half an hour, smoking again, so drunk and his eyes so blurry that even when he blinked again and again, he still saw double. He stuck his cigarette into the plush blanket and started burning a hole in it.
"Quit that," Bakura said, before striding into the kitchen to clean up his dye-covered hands. "I don't want to bother replacing the heater under that blanket if you break it."
"I'm not going to break it." Malik traced the seaming in the blanket with the lit part of the cigarette, watching the wax strip burn and curl while the fabric blackened.
"Like hell you won't," Bakura shouted from the kitchen. "Isn't that what you said about the stove? Now it's just fucking take-out all the time. I can't even—"
He paused, hands still under the tap and rinsing off the black goop, when he noticed an open envelope on the kitchen counter. It was standard letter size, one stamp, with a return address from Egypt. Which was just strange. They never got any mail. Bakura was under the impression that no one even knew they were in Japan, least of all someone from halfway around the world.
Drying his hands, he picked up the envelope and slid out the letter. He caught the first few lines:
Dear Malik,
Brother, I still have not heard from you. Since none of my letters are returning, I can assume that they are reaching you. Please answer me—
"You can't even what?" Malik shouted across the room, and Bakura was so startled that he dropped the letter.
Bakura had to think back to the last thing he'd said. He stuffed the letter back into the envelope without reading the rest, and walked back into the living room.
"I can't even cook ramen for myself," Bakura finished smoothly, kneeling down beside a blurry-eyed, now black-haired Malik, who was still curled up in the heater blanket, which now sported a fist-sized hole in it.
"You don't even eat ramen," Malik said, leaning forward to touch Bakura's face, as he puckered his lips and attempted to kiss him. In his double-vision, he missed, and planted a wet kiss on his chin.
Bakura leaned back, pulling Malik's hand away.
"I think your hair's done. You should go wash it out."
Malik was unabated. He scrambled out of the blanket and jumped on Bakura, the motion causing gobs of hair dye to spurt onto Bakura's face and shirt.
"Goddammit, Malik—"
Malik looked down coyly while straddling him. His face was flushed bronze-red, and Bakura was too distracted by the growing erection pressing into his navel to mind the way Malik grabbed him by the wrists and pinned him to the floor.
"Join me," he breathed, brushing his lips against Bakura's. "We haven't done it in the shower in a while."
Bakura curled his lip at the strong smell of ammonia, as strands of Malik's wet hair swept across his face. But stronger still was the scent of Malik: cigarette smoke, a hint of Shochu on his tongue, minty aftershave, and spicy cologne, a luxurious fragrance he wore for the money it cost rather than for its smell. The scents rolled into one heady aroma, and Bakura was running the tip of his tongue across Malik's bottom lip before he knew it, pushing his hips upward as Malik slid down.
"Wait," Bakura said suddenly, "Malik—"
"Mmm?" Malik's moan raised toward the end, resounding as a question, while he chewed softly at Bakura's lip and rocked into his hips.
"There was… a letter… on the counter," Bakura managed between sharp breaths. He should have been more concerned about the situation. Ishizu's tone sounded urgent, an exasperated plea between each pen stroke, a frustrated battle with what seemed like an unresponsive Malik, and so Bakura couldn't help worrying about what was going on. They had only been in Roppongi for a few months, but this was the first Bakura had seen of Ishizu's letters. How many more had there been?
But he was drunk. He'd had almost half the bottle, and it was suddenly hitting him full-force. The present moment became blurred, a series of feelings and colors, while he blinked a few times and struggled to keep up.
Malik looked down at him, face pinched and eyes narrowed. He pushed against Bakura more roughly, saying, "I don't want to think about that right now, Bakura."
Then he looked at him, entreating, and sighing, he said, "Don't make me think about that," before his voice faded into an exhausted kiss.
At some point, they made it to the bathroom, and the water ran hot and scalding over them both. Bakura tore at his soaking clothes, peeling off the heavy, blue jeans and leaving them in a pile by the drain, straining out of his wet t-shirt, as Malik pulled him forward, and they landed against the tiled wall. Rivers of black water streamed down their skin as the hair dye washed off.
Malik laughed suddenly, and the sound jarred Bakura's ears.
"Bakura—" he gasped out, still laughing, "can you believe—can you believe we actually got in the shower with our clothes on?"
Bakura frowned, but then Malik pulled him into a deep kiss, and as he pressed his naked body into Malik's wet clothes, he started laughing too. The whole thing was pretty funny, actually, and he was sure that he'd scorn himself right now if he were sober. Instead, he just laughed with Malik. But then the denim rubbing against his bare crotch become less funny and more irritating, and he grabbed Malik by his belt hoops and unzipped his pants, stretching and rolling them off. The wet boxers had stuck to the pants, and so they rolled off, too.
Malik didn't bother waiting for the shirt, and wrapped one leg over Bakura's hip, pushing their bodies close, pressing their cocks together. The scorching water slid between them, squelching as their bodies moved, rocking against the wall.
Bakura panted as the water blistered his skin, and the steam rolled off, dizzying, as he captured Malik's arms and stretched them out against the tile, and whispered in his ear, "Fuck, Malik, sometimes I forget how big you are."
Malik chuckled, because that was in fact, the first time Bakura had admitted to that. Bakura never said it, but it was always exciting for him to lay his hands on Malik, to play with him and make him moan. He wrapped his fingers around the base of Malik's erection, slid them down over the length, and lingered at the tip, cupping and rubbing it.
The response he received was worthwhile. Malik was a loud lover, always sure to let Bakura know how much he enjoyed each stroke, lick, and thrust. Eyes squeezed shut and cheek pressed against the tile, he squirmed against Bakura, breathing fast, clearly asking for more.
So Bakura found himself slowly kneeling down. His bare knees rested against the hard bathroom tile, a reminder that he should make this quick if he wanted to avoid bruising his kneecaps. Malik grabbed his hair by the fistful, and looked down, catching his eye.
Bakura brought the whole head into his mouth at once, using his hand to guide the rest inside, inch by inch. He couldn't go very far, but Malik never complained. It pulsated in his mouth as he adjusted, and with his lips wrapped around the smooth skin, he made a sucking motion, and felt Malik tremble against him.
"Oh Gods, do that again," Malik mumbled, sounding somewhere far from him. It was hot and steamy, the water dripping into his eyes and making it hard to concentrate. It would be easier to give himself over to feeling, forget what he was doing and go at it unreserved. In this drunken state, that always worked best. He closed his eyes, gripped the base tightly, and sucked it in again and again. He licked along the edge, pressed the tip of his tongue into the tip of Malik's cock, swallowed the entire head, and panted against the moist skin, turned on by the continuous Ah…! Ah…! Ah! noises coming from above him, as Malik shuddered and thrust into him.
"Bakura!" Malik shouted suddenly, his voice pleading and begging, hands still wringing Bakura's hair. "I'm going to—don't—don't stop—"
He opened his mouth wider just as Malik exploded into him, and the come was warm and salty all over his tongue. The water continued trickling all over his face, streaming into his mouth as he pulled away, and both water and come dripped down his lips, and slid off in streams. The rest, he swallowed, and then he pressed his face into Malik's thigh, still catching his breath.
"You look so fucking sexy like that," Malik said, and lowered down to kiss Bakura on the lips. "I think it's your turn."
They made it to the bedroom somehow, although Bakura couldn't remember if they had ever washed off Malik's hair dye. Still dripping wet, they dropped unceremoniously into the small bed, wrapped up in each other, grabbing arms and thighs, still hungry and as usual, only shortly appeased before going again.
Then Malik rolled onto his back, reclining against the pillows and spreading his legs.
Bakura's eyes widened. "Really?"
Malik just nodded, bending his knees and widening his legs further. It was a rare occasion that Malik wanted to be fucked, but Bakura was too excited by the prospect to have any interest in questioning it further.
Seeing Bakura's enthusiasm, Malik asked, "Shall I pretend I don't like it much?" with a mischievous glint in his eye.
Bakura scowled in response. The first time Malik had let him be on top, a few months into their most recent—partnership, or whatever it was—the moment Malik had started climbing he had sighed Bakura's name, and the exhortation had caused Bakura to come instantly, and now Malik would never, ever let him live it down.
But Bakura didn't respond further to Malik's taunt, not letting Malik's antagonism deter him. He almost wanted to be irritated, but he couldn't help the rush of warmth that spread through him as he thought of how Malik had never done it—would never do it—this way with anyone other than him. So he snatched something from under the pillow, swathed them both in the thick blankets, and proceeded to prepare Malik.
Malik laughed at a ridiculous pitch when Bakura slipped one lube-covered finger into him, and then settled for a moan at the second. When it was Bakura's cock filling him, Malik pushed up his hips into Bakura's and panted out Ah! over and over again. And when Bakura started thrusting hard and fast into him, he lost all control of his mouth, and every other word was an expletive.
"Sometimes I wonder," Bakura said after he'd finished and pulled out, "how you became so acculturated with Egyptian curse words. I mean, I'm sure no one ever swore around you, and it's not like you moved out of the tomb until you were what, almost a teenager?"
Malik smirked, and covered his hands in lube. The motion of his slick fingers over his own cock was a sight that always had Bakura licking his lips in anticipation, and he lay back against the covers.
"Well, I'm nineteen now," Malik replied simply.
Bakura wrapped both legs around Malik's thighs and grabbed his hips, guiding him as Malik slid in slowly. Despite Malik's size, Bakura didn't need the preparation Malik always did when things were the other way around, but Malik still always made sure to use plenty of lube.
"Still, though," Bakura finally said, as Malik started thrusting, pulling back enough to make him wince, and shoving back in so hard that Bakura was already rolling his head back and clinging, white-knuckled, to Malik's arms. "Where did you—ah, learn all these words?"
Malik just smirked again, and a few moments later, Bakura escaped to some sort of plateau where he lost himself, and it was just thrust after thrust after thrust, rhythmic and rough, and he didn't even realize it when he stopped shouting in Japanese, and Malik was giving him a pointed look through sweat-slicked bangs.
"How do you think?" Malik laughed, and Bakura couldn't care less if he sounded like an idiot, spouting in Ancient Egyptian.
"Fuck," was all he mustered, and then there was no more talking.
The owner would still be out for at least another twenty minutes, but that didn't stop Bakura from eyeing the door and turning abruptly anytime he heard a noise.
"Relax," Malik said, sauntering through the aisles one by one and grabbing whatever caught his fancy. "The security guard who works on Tuesdays is lazy as hell. The last thing she wants to do is stare at an empty store for ten hours."
Bakura ran his fingertips over the metal register, judging the lock. Even thousands of years later, the thrill of larceny set something off in him. Call it primal, but the feeling he'd had while robbing tombs in Ancient Egypt was the same stir he felt now. His fingers shook imperceptibly as he jammed the crowbar into the register and pried it open with a sharp pop! followed by the jangle of yen coins as he pulled open the drawer.
He unzipped the money belt around his hips and stuffed as many bills as possible into the belt, before neatly folding more inside hidden coat pockets. The register was a bit bare for his taste, but he didn't dare to clear the whole thing. That would be a dead giveaway of a break-in.
When Bakura glanced around for Malik, he noticed that the boy was admiring his own reflection in the refrigerated aisle, the beam of his flashlight bouncing against the glass. It was an unnecessary beacon, something that could draw attention to them, causing a person passing by outside to get suspicious. But Malik's intense aversion to the dark wouldn't allow him to rob a place in pitch black, so Bakura didn't bother arguing with him about it, allowing him to have the metaphorical security blanket.
"Forgot to do my eyebrows," Malik muttered, eyeing his indigo eyebrows, stark against the newly-dyed black hair.
Bakura rolled his eyes, slipping through the aisles to look for anything else he might need. He was surprised that Malik had chosen such a dark color, as far from the original blond as possible. When Bakura had awoken that afternoon, he'd done a double-take at the shock of black hair on the bedspread beside him. But Malik was right about one thing: it was, in fact, sexy as hell.
The other thing he'd noticed that morning was the fact that the moment he'd hopped out of the shower after awakening, the letter was missing from the kitchen counter. Malik must have hidden it before Bakura could spot it again. Which reminded him briefly about the contents of the message, and Ishizu's urgent tone.
"Malik, what was that letter all about yesterday?" Bakura asked, casually visiting the snacks aisle, and curling his lips at the types of food he hardly recognized.
"What letter?" Malik didn't turn to face Bakura. Through the reflective glass, Bakura caught his frown.
Bakura scowled. "The one marked from Egypt. I asked you about it last night but you were apparently too distracted to answer me," he remarked dryly.
Malik's reflection through the glass was impassive. "It's nothing that should concern you."
"If I don't know what it is, how could I know whether it should concern me?"
In retrospect, it shouldn't have bothered Bakura that Malik wanted to keep something hidden between them. Malik often found it hard to share personal things, and Bakura understood because he was the same. But it was something else that drove Bakura forward, something beyond curiosity, something bordering on…protectiveness.
Malik slowly turned around to face him, and Bakura didn't miss the way he held the crowbar tighter in his right hand. "Trust me, it doesn't."
He felt Malik's breath on his face, taking in a slow, deep breath through his nose. Bakura lowered his voice. "Why don't you just tell me?"
"Drop it, Bakura," Malik said quietly. "I don't want to talk about it."
But Bakura persisted, leaning forward and saying, "From the tone of that letter, it sounded important—"
And suddenly, Malik was lunging towards him, his empty hand facing palm out, almost as if he were attempting to shove him.
Bakura's reflexes, long honed from avoiding traps in tombs, kicked in and he managed to spin out of Malik's path. But he was so shocked by Malik's actions that he stumbled, and then he was falling backwards. He slammed against the aisle of packaged foods behind him, crashing to the floor, breaking bags of chips and boxes of candy as the stand collapsed. The pain in his back was sharp. He sat dazed for a moment—Malik had never even come close to going after him physically, not ever, not even back in Battle City when Malik had been more violent and their partnership had been more fraught. When he glanced up, Malik looked furious.
"What the hell was that?" Bakura asked, struggling to stand up.
"I fucking told you to drop it," Malik spat. "I said I didn't want to talk about it."
Bakura groaned as he took a few shaky steps.
With that, Malik suddenly smashed his crowbar into the refrigerator glass beside him, startling Bakura, and then he reached for several bottles of energy drinks from the shattered refrigerated aisle. He gave Bakura another sour look, and asked, "Are you about ready to leave, then?"
"Yeah," Bakura said, winded.
What the hell was going on? He couldn't place Malik's anger. He'd never seen him so furious.
Bakura stumbled out of the store, and as the cold night air cleared his thoughts, he groaned again. As they climbed onto the motorcycle, Bakura awkwardly wrapped his arms around Malik, wanting at this moment to be as far as he could from the boy. Malik revved up the engine, and they sped off toward the apartment. Not a single star was in the sky that night, Bakura observed distractedly. Not a single winking face.
But now his thoughts went back to the steal.
For one thing, the store manager would be mad. They never left a mess. And now there would be evidence. At least he still managed to grab a good few thousand yen. He patted his coat pockets with one hand, feeling the distinct bills of paper, and then he reached around for his belt.
The belt…
And then Bakura cursed under his breath.
He'd somehow managed to lose the belt between stuffing the bills into it and getting into that fight with Malik. And he'd hidden the majority of the bills in the belt, not the pockets.
"Stop fidgeting around so much," Malik suddenly turned to yell at him. "It's much harder to drive this thing with you moving around."
"Fuck you," was all Bakura said, but he was certain that Malik had already turned his head back into the wind, and hadn't heard it.
The rest of the drive was silent. And when Bakura unsteadily stepped off the bike, he realized something. Something he should have read so clearly even last night.
It wasn't that Malik had been too distracted to pay attention to what he was asking.
It's that he hadn't wanted to listen.