"And I'm gonna rock you like a baby when the cities fall
We will rise as the buildings crumble
Float there and watch it all
Amidst the burning, we'll be churning
Our love will be our wings
Passion rising up from the ashes
When the world ends"

~Dave Mathews Band, "When the World Ends"

Marik led Bakura's Host into the shower cubicle. For amusement, he wanted to see how far he could go before Bakura took over. Ryou's pallid skin blushed a mild coral under the heat of the water. Marik dragged him under the flow and kissed him as water ran down their faces. The first difference he noticed between the two Bakuras was that Ryou used his tongue more, tasting each centimeter of Marik's lips and mouth as if he sampled a tray of champagne grapes. The second difference was the noises Ryou made. Bakura preferred grunts and growls. It wasn't until the end when oncoming orgasm rendered him indifferent to his pride, that Bakura's voice grew taunt and higher pitched. Ryou, however, whimpered and moaned without reservation. The mewls held a wild quality to them and Marik's erection throbbed as he thought of what Ryou's orgasm noises would be if these were his foreplay sounds.

Marik dug his fingers into Ryou's shoulders. He pulled back to study Ryou's face. Ryou panted, his lips the color of Merlot, his dark eyes revealing Ryou's blatant desire. With every feature on his face ravenous and wantoned, Marik wondered how interconnected the two souls sharing the one body were. Marik's anger had been his other personality's anger; did it stand that the need displayed on Ryou's face was shared by both Bakuras? Marik enjoyed the thought, enjoyed the notion that he'd managed to pull away Bakura's tough, outer skin, and what Marik saw now was the raw essence that both the Host and the Spirit shared.

He slammed Ryou against the shower wall. Ryou winced and cried out, in pain not pleasure. Marik paused for a moment, watching as Ryou reached behind to rub a spot on his lower back. "Still sore," Ryou muttered in apology.

Marik turned him around to look, scowling at the large bruise renting the pale, beautiful, white expanse of skin on Ryou's back. "This is from Pharaoh pushing you?"

"Is it bruised? It feels like it."

"No wonder Bakura fucking knocked the Pharaoh on his ass."

Ryou lowered his head. "I'm okay."

"No, this is not okay. The Pharaoh had no right." Marik heard the anger in his voice, a black, thick anger that made his entrails feel icy and sick. He couldn't get angry. He never wanted to lose control of his body again, and that thought made Marik nauseous with his own hypocrisy. He'd taken over Ryou's body, allowed the Spirit to do worse than bruise him. And then Marik caused both of them to go to the Shadows. All because Bakura tried to help him, even if it was for the Rod, though Marik never believed that was the entire reason.

Marik breathed hard, trying to reconcile everything in his mind. His anger at Ryou's bruise, how he and Bakura mistreated Bakura's Host, but also how the Parasite-Host relationship between them appeared to have changed to a symbiotic one. A sick, shaking feeling spread across Marik's chest and limbs as he stared at skin unwillingly marked because of the Pharaoh, different from his own scars, but similar enough evoke empathy. As he looked at the bruise, the same black and inky-purple colors of the Shadows, Marik couldn't help but feel connected to the person standing in front of him.

Marik squeezed Ryou tight in his arms.

"Um, Marik?" Ryou asked.

Marik turned Ryou around so they faced each other once more, sticking his tongue into Ryou's mouth, only this time with less manipulation and more urgency. He cupped his hand over Ryou's bruise so he could press him against the shower wall without hurting the tender skin.

Ryou's eyes rolled back as they kissed. After some time, he pulled away. "The water's getting cold."

Marik reached for the nozzle and turned off the water. "Bed," he said the one word as a command.

Ryou snatched the towel off of the bar as Marik dragged him out of the bathroom. "I need to dry my hair."

"After." Marik pulled him to the bedroom.

Ryou laughed. "I'll get the sheets wet."

"I don't care." He pushed them onto the mattress.

Ryou tried to lay the towel down over the sheets, but Marik didn't slow his assault of touches and kisses. Ryou gave up and pressed his mouth against Marik's chest. Small moans leaked out of Ryou's mouth as his kisses traveled to Marik's navel and his nails ghosted down Marik's sides. He flipped Marik to his back and took Marik's entire length and girth into his mouth.

Marik gasped, not expecting the pleasure that stabbed up his shaft and dissipated into his stomach. He tucked his knees up, opening his legs wide to give Ryou room to maneuver. Ryou massaged Marik's testicles as he guided his mouth up and down. His lips stretched tight over Marik's phallus. Marik felt his tip graze against Ryou's back molars as Ryou pushed Marik's dick into the back of his throat. Marik's fingers knitted into the webbing of Ryou's hair. He let go, petting and caressing the back of Ryou's head.

Ryou continued to suck until Marik swelled as full as his skin could stretch. His fingers stopped petting Ryou's hair and again tangled into the wet net of white strands that looked like cold ocean foam crashing against the sand-colored beach of Marik's body. Ryou pulled back, kissing Marik's thighs.

"Don't stop," Marik attempted to order the two words, but his voice sounded pleading.

Ryou used his thumb and forefinger to stroke Marik's tall shaft, avoiding his head. "Can I kiss you anywhere I'd like, Marik?" Ryou asked, his voice sing-song sweet and Marik didn't trust him anymore than he'd trust the other Bakura.

Ryou flattened his tongue against Marik's head and licked.

Marik closed his eyes, unable to think. "Please, Ryou. Please, Bakura make him finish."

Ryou kneaded his lips against Marik's tip, stopping and asking again. "Can I kiss you anywhere?"

"Yeah." Marik clenched his hands into fists, hoping anywhere meant back on his cock. He felt Ryou trail down Marik's thighs and prepared to force Ryou's mouth on his erection when a gentle, warm burst of pleasure tingled across his lower body. Ryou licked Marik's asshole for a second time and then a third. Marik panted at the new feeling, digging his heels into the bed and curling his toes into the damp sheets. Marik gasped, trying to speak but struggling to catch his breath. "No, I mean, you shouldn't."

"Why not?" Ryou asked in between licks.

"Because . . . this just seems . . . fuck, I don't know. Go ahead."

Ryou tickled the perimeter of Marik's asshole with the tip of his tongue. Then, Ryou thrust his tongue into Marik, his entire body hitched against the bedsheets. He cried out, fingers pulling at the damp, cotton sheets, mind barely in his head. Marik turned away and closed his eyes and reached again for Ryou's hair. He lay on the sheets and allowed Ryou to lift Marik's ass an inch off of the mattress for better access. Marik breathed hard, trying not to moan as loud as he was moaning, but he couldn't think enough to control his volume. Without warning, Ryou dropped Marik's hips onto the bed. He pulled Marik's cock back into his mouth and moved slow, exaggerating each up and down motion.

Marik murmured in Arabic, unable to concentrate enough to translate his words into Japanese – it also prevented either Bakura from understanding what he said. Ryou sped his movements, allowing Marik's tip to glide up his tongue and into the back of his throat with each bob of his head. "Ah, I'm going to, " Marik said, trying to force cohesive words out of his mouth, "you need to pull back."

Ryou ran the fingers of his right hand into the fine, sandy hairs on Marik's stomach, his left hand holding Marik's shaft. He had no intention of stopping or pulling away.

Marik had a moment to think that his plan, to use Bakura to provide himself with simple entertainment and base, carnal gratification as he avoided Egypt, had failed, and now he, Bakura, and Ryou all spiraled towards something deep and terrifying, something intimate and emotional. But, even as he thought of this, the breath froze in his lungs, his feet kicked out, and his fingers yanked two thick fistfuls of Ryou's hair as he came in Ryou's mouth.

Ryou swallowed, wiped his mouth, and sprang on top of Marik's stomach. Marik looked up, water still weighed down the white hair low on his head, but Marik knew he was staring at Bakura because of the difference in the eyes and the trace smirk tugging the right corner of Bakura's mouth upward.

Marik felt the smile spread slow across his face as the Spirit grabbed himself, closing his eyes and tilting his head up as he stroked himself. With Bakura returned, Marik felt more in control of the situation. "What do you see behind your eyelids, Bakura? Are you imagining something sadistic? Do you and Ryou whisper dirty nothings into your minds?"

Bakura slit his eyes open, examining Marik, one hand steady at work and the other trailing along Marik's chest. "We don't talk, but he moans. We think of you."

Marik looked away, still shaky and flustered from his orgasm. "Bullshit. You're flattering me."

"I don't care what you believe."

Marik covered his fingers on top of Bakura's hand, helping him jerk himself. Bakura inhaled at Marik's touch, his hand going a little faster. Marik reached over to the nightstand with his free hand and took the bottle of lube, dripping the liquid onto Bakura's erection. He continued to help him, their fingers slipping along Bakura's length.

"If you think of me, what do you think about?"

"Everything."

"I want you to be specific. What are you thinking about right now?"

"Your hand on my dick, idiot."

Marik used his other hand to caress Bakura's side. His fingertips slipped across Bakura's ivory stomach and traced the rim of Bakura's belly button. Marik noticed, for the first time, that Bakura had a happy trail. He followed the near invisible line of fine hair down to Bakura's pubic area where the trail ended in a field of shaved, pale skin.

Marik watched Bakura's face, his blushing lips moving with excited breaths and soundless whispers, his eyes shut and pale lashes twittering. Marik stopped stroking Bakura and used both hands to grab his ass, kneading the skin and forcing a hard gasp out of Bakura's mouth. Bakura gritted his teeth and reached out with his free hand to grab Marik's arm. Bakura's hips swayed front to back as he bucked into his clenched fist. He gasped three times, releasing Marik's arm and pressing his hand against his perineum. Bakura doubled forward as he climaxed, but Marik noticed he didn't ejaculate.

"Why'd you do it like that?" Marik asked, curious.

Bakura panted, recovering from his orgasm, before he answered, "I just took a shower. I don't want to make a mess." He stood up and walked towards the bathroom.

Marik followed him, watching him clean up. He brushed his teeth and dried and brushed his hair. Marik propped his elbow against the door frame. "Where did you two learn all this shit, anyway?"

Bakura winced as the comb's teeth stuck into a knot in his hair. He looked up at the bathroom mirror, staring at Marik's reflection. "Internet."

Marik snorted. "Maybe if you spent as much time planning as you did wasting your time on a computer, you'd have your revenge already."

"Yes, because you never lowered yourself to such base habits and your plans for revenge came to complete fruition."

"That's different. My revenge was . . . misplaced."

"Was it?"

Marik clenched his jaw, staring at the cream tiles on the bathroom floor. "Bakura, you know I'm the one who killed my father."

"Why?"

"Because my darker self took control."

"But why? There has to be a reason."

Marik twisted his hands into fists. "I'm not talking about it."

He marched back to their bedroom, leaving Bakura to comb through the tangles in his hair. Marik pulled the damp sheets off the mattress, stuffing them in the hamper and finding the linen closet for replacements. He smoothed the fresh, dry sheets onto the mattress and crawled under the blanket. He lay facing the wall, away from Bakura's half of the bed, to avoid anymore conversations that evening.

Bakura also had nightmares, of blood and fire and gold, but what unnerved him more than his nightmares were his dreams. He sat on a simple flax cloth, the warm summer wind blowing his white hair across his tanned shoulders. Above him stars beaded on the night sky like glistening sweat-drops on dark skin. Twelve years old and already a notable thief, Bakura sat in the ruins of Kul Elna and listened to the screams of the spirits still bound to the village. They waited for the Items' return back to the Tablet, screamed for justice, and Bakura listened to their cries, nodding to himself in agreement.

However, one voice maintained a fragment of identify when all others had blended together, just as their bodies had into the gold. His mother, he always recognized her spirit, her heka too strong to fully lose herself even when damned. In the evenings she sang just as she had when alive, her voice reminiscent of wind through reeds, of raindrops striking the riverbanks during monsoons, of everything comforting.

Bakura woke to the feeling of Marik's fingers brushing against his cheeks. It took a moment to realize that Marik was wiping tears away from Bakura's eyes. He sat up and swiped at the remaining dampness with the side of his arm. "Damned Host," he muttered. Ryou didn't protest the lie.

"They happen." Marik shrugged.

Bakura remembered that was what he said after Marik's first nightmare. He felt a strange urge to crash against Marik's chest and allow the tears to continue. Bakura rubbed his face and shook his head, leaping out of bed to deny the existence of his foolish thoughts. He tugged on his pajama bottoms and marched to the bathroom, urinating and brushing his teeth. Trying to stay busy, Bakura went to their diorama, finding one of the sketch books they kept near the laptop. He started drawing.

Marik appeared from the hallway, dressed, hair smooth against his head. He checked the cupboards and took out a pot and various utensils. Bakura ignored him, keeping his eyes trained on the paper and the dark granite lines left by his pencil. The lack of speech in the room felt comfortable. Kitchen noises echoed throughout the apartment, water running, the quiet stammer of flames fanning out of the gas stove top, the occasional clink of dishes, but they didn't speak.

Marik set a plate of fava beans and scallions next to Bakura. He noticed the sketch in Bakura's notebook and yanked it from Bakura's hands.

"I've seen this creature," Marik said, "in the texts I read as a child, but it was larger and dark colored instead of white."

"That was after the Ring," Bakura muttered, playing with the tassels on the Ring since Marik had his notebook.

"After the Ring?" Marik asked.

"Yes, Diabound changed after I began fighting the Pharaoh and obtained the Ring." He touched the center of the Ring hanging from his bare chest to illustrate his sentence.

Marik stared at the picture. "Diabound . . . this creature isn't in any of the stone slabs."

"Of course not. It was my ka."

Marik shook his head, handing the notebook back to Bakura. "I can't imagine you ever having a holy ka."

Bakura pulled the paper away from Marik's hands, ignoring him and finishing the sketch. He and Ryou needed it for their campaign.

Marik crossed his arms over his chest. "Why do you say 'was my ka'?"

Bakura didn't respond.

"Bakura, answer me."

"Why did you kill your father?"

"Because my darkness took over."

"Why?"

"I don't remember."

Bakura raised an eyebrow. "You mean you don't remember when you're awake."

Marik pressed his teeth tight together as he clenched his jaw then answered, "I don't remember. I only remember waking up, like I'd been sleeping, and my father was dead on the floor."

Bakura nodded and answered Marik's question. "My ba and ka are trapped in the Ring, intertwined with the Dark Force in every Item. I can't call him anymore."

"I don't understand, Bakura, why would the Pharaoh fight you if you owned such a pure ka?

"Because if you are not loyal to the Pharaoh you're evil."

Marik gestured to Bakura's plate. "If that gets cold it's not my problem." He went back to the kitchen, grabbing a second dish which he took to the table. "Shit, I forgot to make tea."

Bakura stood and took his plate into the kitchen. He heated up water in the kettle and ate standing up. Occasionally, he'd glance at Marik and scowl, each time Marik scowled back at him. After a few minutes, they both looked at each other at the same time and smiled. Bakura wasn't sure why, it was as if he tried to scowl and all the fine muscles in his mouth got confused and went the wrong direction. The kettle whistled and he poured the tea, bringing two cups to the table and sitting across from Marik.

Marik held his cup. "What did you dream about?"

"Ghosts." Bakura stared at the green liquid in his cup. "What did you dream about?"

"A monster."

"Red eyes and sharp teeth?"

The corner of Marik's mouth twisted up in a cynical grin. "What? You two know each other?"

"Sure we do."

"Not surprised."

Bakura drained his cup. "How long do you think this will last?"

"How long will what last?"

"Well, I can stay inside all day long and work on my game and never find it dull. How long until this apartment bores the hell out of you and you go running off to Paris or Dublin or Moscow or back to Egypt?"

"Stuck in here, stuck underground, at least your apartment has windows." Marik snorted. "You could teach me how to play Monster World."

"We're not playing. We're designing a campaign."

"I can help."

Bakura opened his mouth to say no, but stopped and thought for a moment. "Really?"

Marik nodded his head, finishing his tea. "Why the hell not?"

"You used to make counterfeit cards for Duel Monsters. I suppose you can help me make the cards to go with this game."

"What's the point of making this so grandiose if no one's ever going to play it?"

Bakura smirked. "Maybe I'll invite some of Ryou's friends to play."

Asshole, leave my friends out of your games. I'm only helping you build this because I love Monster World, not so you can torture the Pharaoh.

At the same time his Host yelled in their head, Marik snorted. "Oh yes, a table top RPG, that's a great way to get your revenge."

"Admittedly not as good as your idea of playing a card game, but I'll manage."

"I was going to kill him."

"That's not good enough." Bakura ground his teeth. "What good would killing him do? He's been dead for over three thousand years. His spirit and soul need to be destroyed."

Bakura pushed himself away from the table, going to his room and changing into the first t-shirt and pair of jeans he found. He went back to the diorama, Marik already sitting in the chair beside the table, flipping through Bakura's sketch book. Bakura tried to pull the notebook out of Marik's hands, but he held on tight. "Marik, let go."

"Who is this woman?" Marik asked pointing to the picture he'd been admiring.

Bakura glanced down to see a detailed drawing of a dark skinned, white haired women nursing an infant. "None of your business. Give me back my notebook."

Marik looked up at him. Bakura noticed that he hadn't yet traced his eyes in Kohl. Without the dark liner Marik's expression looked tired, the nightmares cutting into his sleep apparent on his face. Marik released the paper. Bakura clutched the drawing to his chest and frowned.

Marik nodded his head, as if he saw the answer written somewhere on Bakura's expression. "Someone important."

Bakura slammed the sketchbook on top of the table, its weight knocking over several figurines. He walked towards the door and threw it open.

Marik followed him. They left the apartment complex and walked down the street. "Where are you going?"

"For a walk."

"Thought you could stay inside all day without getting bored?"

"Five minutes without you, okay?"

"Don't see why you're so pissed off. At least you remember what your mother looked like."

Bakura stopped, almost tripping over his own feet. He stared at Marik, who looked surprised. Marik shifted his eyes towards the ground. "That was just a lucky guess. I didn't think I'd get it right on the first try."

"That picture . . . is the last moment I saw her alive. Standing in the doorway of the hut nursing Tiy, the light failing around her. Marik, I don't talk about this."

"I'm sorry, Bakura," Marik said, his voice thick.

Bakura snorted. "I don't think I've ever heard you say that word."

Marik forced a grin onto his face. "Savor it. You'll never hear me say it again."

Bakura watched Marik, opening his mouth to say something, but then he saw three girls down the street walking towards them. "Shit." Bakura pulled Marik out of the street and into a narrow alley.

"What the hell, Ba-"

Bakura clapped his hand on Marik's mouth. "Quiet."

They stayed behind a dumpster in the alley as the girls walked by, Marik's back pressed against the brick wall of a side building and Bakura's legs straddled over Marik's half bent knee. They continued to stand together like a pair of awkward Bachata dancers. Once the girls left, Bakura lowered his hand, his voice a whisper. "That was Shizuka, one of the Pharaoh's servants. You don't want to be seen and I'd rather them not know you're here either, especially with me."

He glanced back at Marik and swallowed. Marik's eyes stared at him, intent and piercing. "You have a way," Marik said, "of making me feel like I'm drowning." Marik pulled Bakura to his mouth and kissed him as they crouched in the shadows.

Bakura heard himself whimper from want as they kissed. He pulled away from Marik. "Come on." He took Marik's hand and dragged him out of the alley, walking down the street. "She went towards the apartment, we better go this way for a bit."

They ended up at the park again, on a tall, grassy hill away from the courts and playgrounds. They walked without a specific destination or purpose for about five minutes. Bakura caught Marik's eyes again, naked without the Kohl to garnish them, and both their eyes trailed down to their still clasped hands. They released their hold on their hands and turned away from each other.

"You always drag me into the most inconvenient situations, Marik."

"Don't blame this on me. You're the one who needed fresh air."

"I needed to get away from you so I could think straight."

"If you can't think, it's because you're stupid, not because I'm around." Marik slipped his fingers over Bakura's wrist and stole Anzu's hair tie, pulling his hair back into a pony tail and fastening it with the thin, black cord.

"What is with you stealing my stuff today? Give that back before Ryou has an anxiety attack."

"Stealing from a thief, am I? Do you realize that you just used his name?"

"To avoid confusion," Bakura snapped.

"Host was rather specific."

"Fine, wear the damn hair tie. Like I care that his stupid friend let him barrow it."

"Oh, is that why he likes it? I thought it was weird yesterday when he made such a point of putting it back on his wrist."

Bakura felt his Host move their eyes to look at Marik's hair. It made Bakura stare at Marik as well. A breeze blew Marik's pony tail away from his body, strands of bang falling around his face. Marik wore a wine hued, button up shirt and the combination of the color, Marik's hair, and his bare eyes, sent Bakura's heart into a frenzy that he didn't want to admit to. He took full control again, closing his eyes to escape the sight of Marik.

"You know, I've never been to a park. Since we're here let's do something."

Bakura opened his eyes. "It's a park, you don't really do anything. It's just an excuse to be outside."

"That's kind of brilliant if you think about it."

We can lay in the grass and watch the clouds.

Bakura frowned at his Host's suggestion. "Why would anyone lay on the ground just to stare at clouds?"

Marik glanced at Bakura and then up at the sky. "You know, I always hated living underground, but when I finally got away I was so busy with revenge that I never got to enjoy any of the stupid things I wanted to see on the surface." He pulled Bakura down to the grass, laying on his back and staring at the sky. "All that blue and white reminds me of you, Bakura."

"The cloud over there that looks like a moron reminds me of you, Marik."

"Yes, and that one over there that looks like a jerk favors you."

Marik's fingertips drummed against the top of Bakura's hand. Bakura blinked hard, from the sunlight and from the feeling in his head that everything spun out of control. He held his breath when Marik's fingers settled against his skin. Bakura shifted his hand so his thumb could trace the curve of Marik's hand where thumb and pointer finger met. Marik responded by brushing his pinky against the blade of Bakura's palm.

A single, humorless laughed burst from Marik's throat. "Do you realize what we're doing?"

"Lying on the ground like idiots," Bakura said.

"Yes, but think about it. We're not doing anything. When's the last time that happened in your life? I honestly want to know. When's the last time you weren't waiting for the right moment to strike, or plotting, or putting a scheme into motion?"

Bakura thought for a moment. "I was probably seven."

Marik laughed. "I think I was eleven."

They laid there, on a carpet of green grass, looking up at the blue and white ceiling of the world. Bakura remembered stories his mother invented for him as they walked to the river in the mornings to fetch water. "My mother's hair was cloud white and her eyes sky blue, but her skin was the dark color of river silt. I had to hold her hand when we fetched water, until my sister, Tiy, was born. By then I was old enough to carry the jar for my mother so she could hold the baby."

"I never saw my mother, but I heard she favored Ishizu. I like to think that if she'd been alive, she would have stopped everything, but she probably wouldn't have. What do you think, Bakura? Do you think it might have been different if she'd been there?"

"Maybe," Bakura whispered. He thought of his dream, one ghost singing when ninety-eight others screamed. "Even if you were still initiated, it might have been less horrible with her there."

"I don't remember most of it, pain and blood, of course, but I don't remember specifics . . . I think that's what I dream about."

"I didn't realize how much I'd forgotten of my life, but the last few days memories keep rushing back."

"Why now?"

Bakura tilted his head, finding Marik more interesting than the clouds. "I don't know, you remind me when I was alive."

"Because I'm from Egypt?"

". . . I think it's more than that."

"I'm sorry." Marik turned his head so he was also staring at Bakura. "I should have never returned to Japan. I didn't expect . . . I don't even know what's happening, and I'm not sure I want it to stop."

"Thought you were never going to say sorry again?" Bakura and Marik still traced the outline of their hands.

"I lied." Marik rolled to his side, overlapping on Bakura's chest. He leaned down to take a kiss from Bakura's lips.

"Not in public, Marik."

"I don't care who sees." He kissed Bakura.

Bakura sat up. "But my Host might. You shouldn't make his life anymore difficult than I already do."

Marik sighed. "No, I guess I shouldn't. Do you think those stupid girls are gone now?"

Bakura nodded. They stood, dusting grass away from their clothes and walked back to the apartment.