"I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals—
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting—
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—
I know why the caged bird sings!"

~Sympathy, by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Marik's father scolded him for vomiting through the mouth bit. He'd done it twice, but Marik didn't care about his father's words, couldn't care. Less than half his back bled from the flame-heated, knife-carved lacerations. Single cuts would heal only as shallow scars, so thin strips of skin had to be peeled off the back to make the letters and images clear. The blood clotted, drying cool and tacky around the exposed wounds even as the cuts themselves seared with the fire of Ra. The lower half of Marik's back sweated as if to protect itself from the inevitable cutting fire. Marik thought he might vomit a third time. Smoke sifted through the air and a foul smell clung to it. He tried denying the odor, but it crawled into his nostrils and demanded as much attention as the sharp, itching cuts ruining his skin. The smell was him. The blood, the vomit, the sweat, and the charred stench of cauterized flesh.

"This is an honor," his father said. The hot knife pressed into Marik's skin again.

This isn't happening, Marik insisted in his mind as he screamed through the mouth bit. He renounced each cut. His throat burned from the vomit and smoke.

Isn't happening.

Isn't.

I'm somewhere else.

I'm outside.

I'm anywhere but here.

I'm outside.

It's bright and not dark.

This.

Is.

Not.

Happening.

It's bright and not dark.

It isn't.

It's bright . . .

It isn't.

. . . not dark.

It isn't happening –

– not to me. Not to me. Not to me—Not to me—Not-to-me—Not-to-menottomenottomenottome!

And then he was laughing because it wasn't happening, wasn'twasn'twasn'twasn't. Not to him. Not to him . . . not anymore. He was safe. Finally safe? Yes. Safe in the back of his mind. He was safe as long as he stayed lost in fever and fire and inky black. As long as he stayed asleep in the back of his mind, he could dream he was outside.

Everything split into bright and dark.

Marik's mind felt like a toy his sister once showed him. A small disk on a string with a picture on each side, one a bird, the other a cage, and when one held the string out on each side, the disk would spin, spin, spin, spin, combining the two images, front and back and back and front, and Marik was a bright yellow bird trapped in a dark iron cage.

No, I'm the bird; you're only the cage.

It wasn't until he saw Rishid, blood staining his face and soaking into his shift, that Marik returned to the moment. His back burned, the wounds cauterized but still bleeding through his bandages. It was appropriate for Rishid to have carved into his face, upfront for everyone to see and not hiding like Marik's wounds. Marik was supposed to be the Sun, but he'd given his birthright away to whatever piece of his mind fully endured the initiation. Now he and Rishid were the Moon, Marik the lit side and Rishid his shadow . . .

Marik woke in Bakura's arms. He gasped and stuttered miserable sounds as he returned to consciousness. Bakura had Marik sitting in his lap, one pale arm cradling Marik's head and the other supporting his ass. It was the closest Bakura would get to holding Marik while avoiding his scars. Marik told him the first time they'd fucked during Battle City to never touch his back, but at the moment Marik wished Bakura would hug him properly, caress his back as if he didn't have scars. He wouldn't ask for it, although he knew if he did Bakura would do it.

"We skipped dinner last night." Bakura spoke matter-of-fact, as if they weren't pressed against each other in a desperate need to comfort and be comforted. "Let's go out for breakfast."

Marik swallowed. His throat burned. When he trusted himself to speak, he answered. "Okay, but Ryou still owes me sushi."

Marik stayed in Bakura's hold, laying against his chest. Bakura leaned into Marik's hair, breathing deep but saying nothing. When he finally spoke, it didn't have anything to do with the moment. "I miss real beer. The stuff they brew now tastes like piss."

"Your Host isn't even old enough to drink beer."

Bakura snorted. "So what? I've drank beer since I was tall enough to hold a cup."

Marik slid out of Bakura's lap and crawled out of bed. They both walked to the bathroom. Bakura looked at himself in the mirror, his hair still pulled back. Marik started the shower water. He nudged Bakura's leg with his toe before stepping under the water. "You're so vain. Quit staring at the mirror."

"It's weird seeing your reflection, but it's someone else's face. Especially because it's not that different. Same cheekbones. Same hair. But his skin is so white. It reminds me of Diabound."

Through the sound of running water, a strange silence covered the room. Marik could tell that Bakura and Ryou spoke in their minds. Through the fogged glass, Marik saw Bakura nod to himself. After he washed and rinsed his hair, he and Bakura traded places in the shower. Marik brushed his teeth, dried his hair, and lined his eyes with Kohl. He watched Bakura step out of the shower and wrap a towel around his waist. "You're too skinny. Stop skipping meals."

"Stop telling me what to do."

"But, Bakura, you like it."

"Screw you, Marik. Get out of my way; I'm getting cold."

Marik stood in front of Bakura, looking down so their eyes met.

"Thought I told you to get out of my way."

"Make me."

Bakura lifted Marik up and pressed him against the wall. "Not too skinny to pick you up, am I?"

The moment felt a bit like a dream to Marik, or like something he'd watched on TV. The mirror fogged with steam, and Bakura's wet hair dripped down his back and into the towel at his waist. Their skin, soft from the shower, pressed together; it didn't seem like something that could happen to him. Darkness, bathing with a coarse cloth out of a bucket of water, hours alone in a room forced to study texts about the Pharaoh . . . even after all these years, Marik felt like that was his life. No matter where he traveled as he lead the Rare Hunters, he couldn't quite escape the old tomb. However, Marik imagined Bakura as a door, one that would finally lead him out into open air, but it was up to Marik to step through and claim his own freedom.

Bakura kissed him. "Had I known . . ." Bakura kissed him again. "I would have never opened that door and let you into this apartment." Bakura kissed him a third time.

Marik opened his mouth and kneaded Bakura's tongue with his own. Both their mouths tasted like toothpaste. He pulled away. "I could always leave."

"Go back to your tomb-guardian's destiny?"

"And leave you alone to challenge Pharaoh to one last Shadow Game."

"Or we could always say fuck it, toss all the old cards and dice in the trash, and write the campaign for our own game."

"You wouldn't do it." Marik tangled his fingers in Bakura's damp hair. "Your revenge is too important."

"Maybe I would do it. To prove you wrong."

"I know your revenge is too important."

"I can't forgive Pharaoh." Bakura averted his eyes. "But I refuse to be a pawn . . . and that's what I've been for a long time."

Bakura held Marik's waist as Marik drove his motorcycle to the far end of Domino City, where they'd be less likely to be seen by someone who knew Marik.

It's like we have a secret boyfriend. Ryou laughed in the back of their mind. With us sneaking around like this.

Still want a boss battle?

Yes.

Then let's piss off a dark god.

Bakura held Marik a little tighter, his helmet preventing him from leaning in too close. They found a place to eat. Bakura frowned, feeling uncomfortable surrounded by glass, polished wood, and folded napkins. Marik, however, blended into the environment as if born in it. Marik's well manicured nails, easy body language, and the way his lips and tongue danced as he ordered, distracted Bakura. He didn't realize until afterward that Marik ordered for both of them. It seemed something that a married couple would do and the thought made Bakura's skin itch.

"Don't pout." Marik grinned.

"Don't order for me. I'm not a woman."

"Of course not. If you were I'd want nothing to do with you."

A server brought tea. Bakura stared at the green liquid in his cup, tracing the circumference of the glass with his fingertip. His gaze kept lifting up to steal glances at Marik. He told himself to stop, but then he'd find his eyes rising again to meet lavender. He felt Marik's foot nudge against his, repeating the game Ryou played the previous night at dinner. Bakura shut his eyes and sipped the steaming tea as Marik's foot trailed up his leg. Exhaling slowly, his free hand reached across the table and his pointer finger ghosting across the back of Marik's hand. When his eyes caught Marik's again, they both smiled, as if they'd reached a secret agreement—perhaps to murder everyone in the room and set the building on fire, or perhaps to stop by the park again before they went back to the apartment.

They had tamago, miso soup, tofu, fish, and umeboshi. Bakura found he had more of an appetite than usual. He ate the food as he would have when alive, scooping large mounds of rice into his mouth and chewing just enough. Marik winced and Bakura forced himself to slow down, mentally cursing Ryou for laughing at the moment.

As they exited the restaurant, Ryou spoke. We need to stop by the craft store. I don't have everything I need to construct the palace.

"Take me to the craft store, I need a few things." Bakura said out loud.

Marik raised an eyebrow. "When did I become your personal chauffeur?"

Bakura opened his mouth to snap back at Marik, but Ryou slipped in control and took Marik's hand, leading him to the motorcycle.

When Marik pulled his hand away, Ryou smiled and turned to look at him.

"You bring him back. I was trying to pick a fight."

"I know." Ryou pulled his helmet over his head in order to end the conversation.

Marik pushed his hands into his hips. "I'm only taking you to the craft store because I'm bored."

"Thank you, Marik."

Marik snorted and slung his leg over the bike. The craft store was across the street from the park and after Ryou bought what he needed, he stored the bag and walked across the street without saying anything. Marik chased him, giving Ryou's shoulder a playful shove as he ran past him. Ryou caught his balance, laughing and racing Marik up and then back down the hill. When he caught up to Marik he pushed him. Marik barely stumbled as he ran, shouldering Ryou again. They circled around the base of the hill, laughing and trying to knock each other off balance until, halfway up, Marik tackled Ryou into the grass, sending them both rolling the rest of the way down. Marik landed on top of Ryou.

"Would it bother you if I kissed you in public?" Marik brushed stray blades of grass out of Ryou's hair.

"Um." Ryou surveyed the park, at the moment it was empty. "It's okay as long as no one from the museum saw us. It's not too far away."

Marik tilted his head, confused. "The museum?"

"My father works there. He's at a dig in Peru right now, but if his co-workers saw us they'd spread rumors."

Marik smirked, still laying on top of Ryou. "Oh, I see. Ashamed of me, are you?"

"No." Ryou shook his head. "I just don't think that's something you should find out about your son over the phone from a work associate."

Marik snickered. "Even if your father was in town, it's not like you'd introduce me to him."

"I would if you were serious about wanting to meet him, but you're just fucking with me, and by the time he's back from Peru you'll have already left." Ryou shifted his gaze away from Marik. "I doubt you'll even say goodbye."

Marik started at Ryou's words as if he'd been slapped. He raised himself up and sat in the grass. "Maybe I'll stay."

"You never stay anywhere for very long, do you?"

Marik winked at him. "Maybe I will stay. To prove you wrong."

Ryou sighed and stood up. "I wish that were true. Take me to the supermarket so I can buy the things I need to make your sushi."

They stayed quiet at the supermarket. Only Bakura spoke, teasing Ryou. He tried convincing Ryou to steal the nori. Not any of the other ingredients, just the nori, which somehow pissed Ryou off more than if Bakura seized control of their body and stole everything himself. Then Ryou had the odd, tickling realization that Bakura was doing it on purpose and he laughed out loud, drawing a sharp stare from Marik. Aware that he'd laughed too loud at seemingly nothing, Ryou blushed and shrugged, staring at the ground and scolding Bakura, who laughed without remorse in the back of their mind as loud as he pleased. They stole the nori and paid for the other ingredients.

Back at the apartment, Ryou tossed his craft bag next to his game table and went to the kitchen to put away the groceries. He started the rice and went back into the living room while it steamed. Marik pushed Ryou, slamming him into the couch cushions and laying on top of him. "Fuck you. Maybe I really will stay to prove you wrong."

Ryou looked up into Marik's broody expression. He smiled and brushed the tip of his nose against Marik's cheek. "That would be nice."

"But you don't believe me."

"I wish I did."

"Then tell Bakura to stop saying whatever he's saying—"

Ryou pressed a finger against Marik's lips to silence him. By the look on Marik's face, Ryou could tell no one had silenced him before. Ryou shook his head. "He's not saying anything. He's just nodding in agreement with me."

"Well, why would I stay?" Marik asked. "Don't you get it? He's just using you to build that damn model of Egypt. Once it's complete he's going to take control, challenge the Pharaoh to a Shadow Game, and try to destroy everything. He's had it planned since before Battle City. I saw it in his mind before I gave the Ring back to the Pharaoh."

Ryou didn't need the guilty silence in the back of his mind to know Marik spoke the truth. He sighed and frowned. "I know. I've known that since the first day we started making it."

"Then why did you help him?"

"I thought maybe if we worked on it together I'd learn something about him. That maybe I could fix things somehow." Ryou averted his eyes. "Yugi's so close to his Other Self; I wanted to know what that was like. But we couldn't talk to each other. It was too hard. He was lost and it wasn't until you came back that he started remembering things, until he became . . . himself. I don't know how to explain." Ryou looked up at Marik. "Now it's a different game with different rules. A better game."

Ryou reached up and pulled Marik's face lower. He kissed Marik's forehead, moving to his cheeks and finally his lips. "Thank you," Ryou whispered. "Maybe you'll stay and maybe you'll take off two weeks from now. Either way, I'm glad he opened the door that day and let you push your way inside."

Marik knotted his hands into Ryou's hair. The heavy strands bunched in his fists but smoothed back down when he released his hold. Ryou swiveled his tongue into Marik's mouth, enjoying the smooth inner lining of Marik's lip against his tongue and the sweet taste of Marik's saliva. They kissed for a long time, long enough for the light shinning through the window to slant deeper into the living-room. Marik's hand slipped under Ryou's shirt, up to his chest, down his ribs. Marik tucked his hand under Ryou's back and rubbed small, delicate circles over the bruise that had already faded to a dull, china blue. Next, he worked his fingers below the belt line of Ryou's jeans, tugging at them twice before unsnapping the button.

Ryou kept his lips pressed against Marik: his mouth, his neck, the tops of his shoulders. Ryou kissed each section of Marik methodically as Marik peeled the clothes away from Ryou's body. Ryou wiggled lower on the couch so he could raise the hem of Marik's shirt and feel hard muscle and skin against his lips and tongue. He inched up Marik's stomach, rolling the shirt up higher each time until it was bunched around his arms and Marik pulled it away from his head and loomed over Ryou, bare-chested and growing impatient.

Marik ripped off his pants and pulled the bottle of lube from underneath the cushions. Marik chuckled at the bottle. "So, Ryou?" he asked, sounding casual. "How long have you and Bakura been fooling around with each other?"

Ryou felt his cheeks heat at the question. "It wasn't really with each other. More like by ourselves at the same time."

"Oh, is that how you justified it?"

Ryou's cheeks burned hotter and he exhaled his explanation in a quick rush of breath. "I mean, I tried taking the Ring off, but he'd scream at me every time I did that, and then I tried not doing it at all and that was driving me crazy. So one night it was hot and I couldn't sleep so we just kinda did it real quick because we both wanted to sleep, but it wasn't so bad so we, y'know, experimented from there and – and dammit, I bet Yugi does it, too!"

Marik laughed hard, rolling off the sofa and onto the carpet. Bakura scowled in the back of Ryou's mind at the thought of Yugi and the Pharaoh.

Marik rested his elbow on the sofa. "And how often do you imagine what Yugi and the Pharaoh do at night, Ryou?"

Ryou covered his face with both hands. He realized he smelt burning grains of rice. "Shit!" He jumped off the sofa and ran, naked, into the kitchen. He pulled the pot off the burner and opened the lid, fanning stream away and inspecting the rice with a wooden paddle. "The bottom's scorched, but I think I can salvage most of this."

Ryou dumped the usable rice into a bin to cool and soaked the pot in the sink.

"What are you doing?" Marik stood up, lube still in hand as he followed Ryou into the kitchen.

"Making sushi."

"Oh no you don't." Marik lifted Ryou into the air and sat him down on the counter.

"Marik, I'm going to roll the sushi on this counter."

"I'll clean it when I'm done with you." Marik rubbed the circular edge of Bakura's Ring with his thumb as he kissed Ryou's chest around the artifact.

Ryou squirmed under Marik's touches, his lost erection resurrecting itself. "I'll be too tired to make sushi."

"I'll buy some."

"But the bet. Besides, I like cooking."

"You'll like this more." Marik doused his fingers in lubrication and fingered Ryou with one hand while toying with Ryou's tip with the other hand.

Ryou's squirming changed to mild bucking. He leaned his head back and pushed his hips forward. Marik purred in his ear as he stimulated him. Ryou exhaled, hiking his legs over Marik's shoulders and pressing his hands against the counter for balance. "Okay, I suppose you can order sushi for dinner."

"Did you just give me permission?" Marik snorted, pulling his hands away from Ryou's body.

Ryou gave him a wide smile, his eyes closed and his expression harmless. "Oh? Did you want me to prepare dinner after all?"

Marik hoisted Ryou back into the air, Ryou had to wrap his arms around Marik's neck and his legs around Marik's back to keep balance. Ryou's legs pressed against the lower range of Marik's scars.

"Don't talk unless you're calling out to me." Marik wedged himself inside Ryou, still holding him up in the air.

Ryou did call out, his body weight pressing down on Marik's girth. He could only hold on, muffling his shouts by pressing his mouth into Marik's shoulder. Marik grabbed Ryou's ass and pumped his body up and down.

"Oh please," Ryou gasped into Marik's ear.

Marik slowed down his movement to torment Ryou.

"Marik, please!"

Marik slammed Ryou against the refrigerator. The action hit Ryou's bruise but he swallowed the discomfort, too enraptured by Marik's thrusts to worry about a sore tailbone. Each time Marik pushed forward, Ryou gasped. He bit into Marik's neck hard from excitement. Marik grunted at the pain, adjusting his grip on Ryou's ass and slamming into him harder. The stronger thrusts caused Ryou to push his head back and shout ah's at the ceiling. He thought about the neighbors and tried to tone his cries down to lower, huskier sounds, but it was hard when Marik pushed deep. Marik's stomach grazed the length of Ryou's erection each time he buried himself inside Ryou's body. The sensation combined with Bakura's haughty screams echoing in their mind made Ryou's cries ring out uncontrolled, so loud that Marik leaned forward and smothered Ryou's shouts by kissing him.

"Stop screaming so loud or I'll cum before you." Marik grunted then swallowed Ryou's mouth wtih his own a second time.

Ryou's calls simmered down to loud whimpers as his lips pressed into Marik's. He pulled at Marik's bottom lip, squeezing his arms tighter around Marik's neck. Marik continued to move. Ryou curled and uncurled his toes. His legs stayed roped around Marik to help keep himself in place against the fridge.

"I'm really close," Ryou said, his voice muffled against Marik's kisses.

"So am I." Marik tried to move one of his hands, but it ruined their balance.

Ryou shifted, hooking one arm around Marik's neck so he could tease himself with the other hand. He held his shaft, angling his erection so the tip still rubbed against the sweat and pressure of Marik's body.

Marik's hard breathing became his own little groans, quiet at first but growing in volume. Ryou ejaculated; a rush of signals tingled through all his nerves. Once he recovered, Ryou readjusted himself against Marik. His hand brushed against Marik's back as he groped for purchase. "Sorry." Ryou winced, the sensation of scarred skin coarse against his fingers.

Idiot.

Marik's breath caught in his throat, a strange noise exhaled from his mouth a moment later. Ryou couldn't tell if the sound was rapture or horror. Marik slid Ryou's body to the floor. Ryou tried to read Marik's expression, but couldn't. Sweat matted Marik's hair to his forehead. His shoulders and chest gleamed. All the muscles in his chest contracted; a spasm rippled across his deltoids and trapezius.

Ryou touched the taunt muscles with his fingertips. He drew characters on Marik's chest, breath, happiness, light. Bakura took control of Ryou's right hand and added a final symbol, stay. Ryou imagined they were using runes to cast a spell.

Marik lost his rhythm, his thrusts hard but irregular. His fingers dug into Ryou's shoulders and Ryou watched Marik's face as he came. Ryou touched Marik's lips. "Marik, will you hold me?"

Marik pulled out of Ryou and lowered his almond-colored body on top of Ryou's pale torso. He wrapped his arms around Ryou and used his milk-white chest as a pillow.

Ryou combed Marik's hair with his fingers. "You can mop when you clean the counter."

"You really know how to push your luck, don't you?"

Ryou ignored Marik, sucking in a deep breath. "I love how you smell."

Marik blinked at him. He knew how to deal with Bakura, an insult for an insult, but Ryou's compliment threw him off balance. He settled into Ryou's chest, caressing Ryou's shoulders.

Ryou grew thoughtful. "This was . . . kinda my first time."

Marik sat up and looked down at him. "But I thought—"

"It feels the same," Ryou interrupted, sitting up so he was eye level with Marik, "but usually it's like my hands are tied behind my back. I usually prefer Bakura taking over." Ryou stared at the kitchen tiles. "Because, I don't know, is it stupid that I still feel shy around you?"

Marik half-laughed, half-snorted. "Could have fooled me."

"But it's true."

Silence covered the kitchen for a minute; neither man was sure what to say. Marik giggled, his breath shallow and his voice giddy. "We're still on the floor."

"Guess I should try to make dinner."

Ryou tried to stand up, but Marik pulled him back to the tiles. "I said I'd take you out."

"You don't have to do that."

"And then you can mop the floor yourself."

"All right. That's fair, I suppose." Ryou chuckled, leaning into Marik's chest. He and Bakura both controlled his right hand at the same time, drawing the same symbol on Marik's chest repeatedly.

Stay. Stay. Stay.