***I wrote this in one sitting and just finished, so I'm sure it's riddled with errors and I'm sorry. Nelliphant requested a Thiefshipping lemon where they played a drinking game.***

Marik sat at the kitchen table. His hair was mussed, eyes bare of kohl, and his hand held an old, ceramic mug filled with black coffee. The first signs of dawn poured in through the windows, but that didn't stop Marik from keeping on the overhead lights as well. Bakura never complained, though, and perhaps that was one of the reasons Marik agreed to let him stay when he appeared at Marik's front door (a month from the current day and a year after Yugi's Ceremonial Duel).

With Bakura, Marik never had to worry about explaining lights, or nightmares, or angry outbursts that would seem random to anyone who didn't already know why Marik was prone to them (because he didn't have his alter ego to process the emotions anymore). Hell, Bakura was as bad off as Marik, sometimes sitting on the couch with his knees pressed into his chest and a lost look on his face. When it happened, Bakura was incapacitated and nothing Marik did could ever bring him back to the current moment, so when it happened, Marik stayed quiet, waiting for Bakura to snap back to the present on his own. Whether it was Bakura's flashbacks, or Marik's outbursts, neither ever acted like they noticed; instead, they picked up an argument, or played Duel Monsters, or watched an old Bollywood movie they could make fun of while they ate kushari without chickpeas - because for some reason Bakura refused to eat chickpeas.

The front door opened and shut. The sound of it echoed to the kitchen. Marik looked up from his coffee and saw Bakura wearing a charcoal colored hoodie and old jeans. He tossed a stack of paper bills onto the table. "See, I told you I'd pay my half."

Marik frowned at the money. "How'd you get it?"

"What does it matter?"

"Look, you know why it matters. I'm not applying for sainthood any time soon, but I'm also trying not to be a complete criminal anymore. I don't want to pay the rent with your pick pocket money."

"I'm flattered that you think I'm so good at pick-pocketing that I could make this sort of cash in a few hours, but that's not how it works." Bakura smirked. "I won this money in a poker game. Not exactly honest work, but at least the victims were volunteers."

Marik sipped his coffee. "How'd you get the initial money to bet?"

Bakura's smirk widened. "Stole it from your wallet." He shrugged. "I added that amount back into the bill pile."

Marik set his cup down, angry at first, but then he laughed. "You know what? Fuck it. Well played."

Bakura snorted. "You caved in a little fast there. I was prepared for a lecture."

"Borrowing money from me and gambling is as good as reformed as I think you'll ever get, and it's good enough for me."

Bakura's smirk settled a little, becoming dangerously close to a smile. "Good to hear, because I also won enough to buy this." He showed a paper bag to Marik and pulled out a bottle of Crown.

Marik raised an eyebrow. "A little early in the morning."

Bakura rolled his eyes. "Ryou told me about a movie, and a game."

Marik grinned. "I like both of those things. Elaborate."

"The movie is called Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street, and the game is simple. You take a drink when certain things happen . . . like when Sweeney cuts a throat."

"Your host and his movies - I wonder about him."

"It's a revenge film. He implied that I have some common characteristics with the protagonist." Bakura furrowed his brows. "He also implied that I should watch the movie because it shows why getting revenge isn't the same as having a happy ending, but of course it wouldn't happen that way in a movie - people expect a story to go a certain way, sweet girls always get rescued, nasty men seeking vengeance always end up bleeding from their own sword."

"So why are we going to watch this then?"

Bakura's expression returned back to his usual crooked grin. "To drink every time someone's throat gets cut. To hell with Ryou's morals."

Marik finished his coffee and rinsed the cup in the sink. "Why not? It's not like we were doing anything important tonight."

Bakura shoved the bottle in the fridge to chill. "Great. Well, I'm going to bed."

"Asshole, don't go to bed. I just woke up."

Bakura shrugged, marching out of the kitchen. "Not my problem. I'll see you at noon."

It was closer to three when Marik actually saw Bakura lurking around the apartment again. He wore the same jeans and no shirt. The white of his torso seemed to rise from the waist of his jeans like thin, white smoke rising above a fire.

Marik stared a moment. He'd showered and dressed since that morning, sharp, black lines of kohl lined his gemstone eyes and he wore his gold bangles and choker. Bakura caught him staring, but Marik didn't turn away. Instead, his eyes struck Bakura's gaze and held it.

Bakura smirked. "You were staring."

"You're half naked."

"So what?"

"So all that white draws the eye."

"Oh? Is that all it is?"

Marik nodded to the kitchen. "I saved you some lunch."

"Does it have meat for once?"

"If you want to eat something specific cook for me for a change."

Bakura disappeared into the kitchen and brought back a plate. For all his complaining, he ate everything.

"Rinse the plate or you're out on the street."

"What would you do if I called your bluff on that?" Bakura asked, standing up.

"Kick you out, that's what I'd do."

"I doubt that. You'd have no white in the apartment in which to draw your eye to."

He went to the kitchen. Marik heard water running, although he knew he'd end up having to re-wash the plate. Bakura never did a good job rinsing his dishes, but Marik always made him do it anyway. Marik thought, for all their bickering, they really did well living together.

Bakura returned to the living room and Marik asked, "So, are you going to put a shirt on any time soon?"

Bakura sat next to Marik, cleaning his nails with a pocket knife. "I don't see why I should. I live here, afterall."

"I want to go to the store."

"Then go. I won't stop you."

"Come with me."

Bakura frowned. "I don't want to."

"Then I'm picking out all the food, and you can't bitch when you don't like any of it."

"Fine." Bakura flicked his knife shut and stuck it into his pocket. "I need to get a mixer for the whiskey anyway."

When they returned, Bakura helped Marik cook dinner. Marik thought they'd be on each other's toes and arguing within three minutes, but Marik chopped and prepped vegetables, while Bakura browned strips of beef for their curry and it somehow worked. They sat down to dinner actually having a decent conversation about the corruption of myths over time. Marik wasn't even sure how they'd gotten on such a random topic. It began with Set and sort of spun out of control.

For the first time Marik could remember, he didn't notice the sun setting. It usually made him shudder, the sunset. Watching the sun sink lower past the horizon and dragging darkness behind always filled Marik with vague dread, but he'd forgotten all about it while talking to Bakura.

"Ready?" Bakura asked after he helped with the dishes. He pulled out the Crown and Coke from the fridge and mixed two tall glasses before Marik had a chance to answer. They began by following the rules, drinking for each song or when London was mentioned, but they also made up rules as they went along - drink every time there's cleavage, drink whenever a character acted in the extreme. They were leaning against one another and laughing before they'd barely gotten into the movie, and when their glasses emptied, Bakura refilled them.

"That blood looks so fake. It pisses me off," Bakura complained. "I'm taking an extra drink for that."

"Yeah," Marik agreed, downing another gulp himself.

"What is this asshole doing singing a duet! Why hasn't he cut his throat yet?"

"Yeah!" Marik raised his glass to emphasize his statement. "Slit his throat so we can take a drink."

Bakura groaned as Todd was interrupted a moment before his razor could sink into his enemy's throat. "See? This always happens, seconds before you think you've won, some asshole interrupts. It pisses me off."

"We should take a drink anyway." Marik followed his own advice. Bakura nodded and mimed him.

The movie became hard to focus on. They stopped taking drinks, setting their cups on the coffee table. Marik glanced over at Bakura. He'd removed his shirt again, so his white hair streamed over his white shoulders. Marik reached out and slid one of his dusky fingers down Bakura's narrow, white arm. He jerked, spinning and staring at Marik, but smiling a moment later.

"Am I drawing your eye again?"

In his side vision, Marik noticed Sweeney Todd cutting a beggar-woman's throat. "Shouldn't we drink to that?"

"Huh?" Bakura glanced at the screen. "Oh, yeah, I suppose we should."

They took their glasses and drank in union.

"Ha." Bakura grinned, too wide for his face. "The judge. Let's see if he gets what he deserves this time." Bakura leaned forward, watching the screen, but Marik kept his eyes on Bakura, smiling as he watched the excitement build on Bakura's face.

"Kill him - kill him - kill him," Bakura chanted, his free hand in a fist. "That's right . . . sit in the chair - oh sweet, fucking gods! They're singing again! If he fucks this up I'm going to scream."

As Bakura threatened to scream, Sweeney Todd actually screamed out his name, plunging his silver razor into the judge's throat.

"Yes!" Bakura cheered, arms in the air. "Fucking yes! Finally! Bye-bye fucker! Marik, finish the glass!"

Marik downed the second half of his drink, gasping for breath after the last of the Crown and Coke was down his throat. Bakura grabbed the remote and turned off the t.v.

"Wait, what are you doing?"

"Oh, we're done. I don't know what happens next, and I'm never going to find out. Todd got his revenge, and as far as I'm concerned he goes to bed afterward and gets the most restful night of sleep in his life. In the morning he wakes up and eats a meat-pie made out of the judge and it's the best damn breakfast he's ever had. That's how the movie ends, Marik."

"But his daughter is still in the chest."

"Who cares? What did I tell you about the young girls? They're always okay by the end. She'll abscond with her sailor and living a wretched, mediocre life making babies and knitting socks for them. Oh the joys of being a heroine."

"Better than the tragic hero, don't you think? You won't even watch his ending."

Bakura scowled, not drunk, but definitely loopy. He set down his cup and the remote. "I want to change his ending, Marik. Just once let him have his fun and not be punished by the gods for it."

Marik leaned a little closer. He could smell whiskey on Bakura's breath and cologne on his neck. "You know . . . I don't even like the metaphor of you being like Sweeney Todd."

"If I'm like him it's a simile and not a metaphor."

"Oh shut-up, you know what I meant. I still don't like it, because if you're Sweeney Todd that makes me Mrs. Lovett."

"What? How so?"

"Because I'm your partner."

"She's not his partner. She's his groopie. Do you know what you'd be in that metaphor?"

Marik laughed. "What?"

Bakura leaned closer. Their noses almost touched. "The straight razors."

"His razor blades? How am I the razor blades?"

"Those are his true partner. They're the only thing he smiles at, or respects, or even cares for in the slightest."

"He does call them his friends." Marik blinked, staring at Bakura's face. "Does that make me your friend?"

Bakura reached up, slipping his hands into Marik's hair. "It makes you the only thing that glistens in this miserable, tragic world of mine."

Marik's mouth dropped a little. When Bakura noticed Marik's lips move, he bridged the last breath of space between them and sealed their lips together. Marik pulled them closer together, pressing their chests together. Bakura gasped, and Marik dipped his tongue into Bakura's opened mouth.

Bakura fell back onto the sofa cushions and Marik climbed on top of him, sucking at Bakura's top lip. Their fingers grabbed for each other, kneading bare skin where they could find it. Marik jerked off his tank top, casting it down to the carpet.

"Is this a whiskey thing?" Marik asked even as he undid Bakura's belt buckle.

"You tell me." Bakura grabbed Marik's wrists and pulled them away from his pants, dragging his pale lips across spice-colored skin above Marik's wrist jewelry.

"I'm the one that's been staring at you every time you don't wear a shirt."

"And I'm the one that's been walking around without a shirt so that you'd stare."

"Then why has it taken us a month to get to this point?" Marik pulled his hands away from Bakura's lips so he could finish disrobing Bakura.

"Wait." Bakura reached into his pocket before Marik finished slipping off his pants. He handed Marik a 2 oz bottle of lube.

Marik took it, raising an eyebrow.

"I stole it from the store when you were buying shampoo."

"What? You think a few drinks is all it takes to get into my pants?"

"Hey, I just wanted to be prepared. I figured if not tonight, then it'd only be a matter of time."

Marik laughed, slipping out of his own pants. He drizzled the lube on both of their erections and rubbed them together. Bakura gasped, arching his back and clawing at the upholstery.

"Hmmm . . ." Marik purred as he continued to slide their cocks together, holding them with his left hand. "I wonder if you're loud in bed." He used a little more gel to coat his right fingers and press two up Bakura's ass.

To his delight, Bakura arched again and called out. Marik continued to prep Bakura, quick and a little rough, but Bakura moaned instead of complained.

"You're definitely loud in bed."

"Why should I give a fuck?" Bakura growled. "I'm not polite enough to be quiet."

"Good." Marik added more lube to both his erection and Bakura's entrance before penetrating Bakura.

"Oh damn." Bakura crushed his eyes shut, hair in a swarm around his head. The sofa was narrow, but he slung one white leg over the back of the sofa and planted his other heel against the cover table in order to keep his legs spread wide for Marik.

A long, low sigh of pleasure escaped Marik's mouth as well. No amount of alcohol could mute the thrill coursing through Marik's cock as he rammed hard and deep into Bakura's body. Sweat trickled down his neck and his hair tickled against his damp skin.

Bakura reached out and pulled Marik closer to him. Their skin radiated heat as they moved, and Bakura's throaty gasps and moans resonated loudly into Marik's ears. His fingers wandered from Marik's ribs to his back.

"Can I touch them?" Bakura asked as his fingers hit the first ridges of scar tissue.

Marik's eyes locked with Bakura's, shining with whiskey and the overhead light. For some reason Marik thought of the scroll work on Sweeney Todd's silver razors. The ridiculous metaphor made Marik smile. He nodded, and Bakura ran his palms across Marik's back. He didn't inspect the marks, instead he simply held Marik's back, the heat from his hands made the muscles in Marik's back relax. He sighed, slowing his thrusts in order to kiss Bakura on the mouth.

"Marik."

"What?"

"Grab me."

Marik used one hand to keep himself balanced and used the other to start stroking Bakura. He spoke close to Bakura's lips, moving too fast to kiss him. "Like this?"

"Yes."

"Are you going to cum?"

"Yes!"

Bakura wrapped his legs around Marik's waste. Marik barely moved, trapped in Bakura's hold, but he continued to stroke until Bakura poured out between them. His legs slacked. Marik grabbed Bakura's legs and placed them on Marik's shoulders. With one hand on the sofa arm, and the other near Bakura's chest, Marik returned to fast jerks of his hips. When his orgasm hit, Marik tossed his head back as he howled at the ceiling light.

Bakura laughed. "Who's loud in bed?"

Marik slipped out, staring at Bakura's ruffled hair and flushed face. "I'm not polite enough to be quiet."

Bakura smiled. "Good." A more solemn look crept across his face. He looked away. "Do I still have to sleep in my own room?"

"What?" Marik leaned down, kissing Bakura's exposed jaw and behind his ear as he whispered to him. "Did you want to sleep on the couch instead?"

"Fuck you, Marik," Bakura whispered in return, his words drowsy instead of insulted.

"Hey, Bakura."

"What?"

"You look sleepy. Come to bed with me."