Yeah, but don't you worry about a thing
No, 'cause I got you here with me
Mm-mmm, don't you worry about a
Just you and me
Floating through the empty, empty
Just you and me
Oh, graces
Oh, grace

~Dave Mathews Band, "When the World Ends"

Bakura sat atop the park table, his feet resting on the bench below. He used his teeth to strip a piece of dango from its bamboo skewer. "You know the more we do this, the more likely we get caught." He chewed the dumpling.

Marik sat on the bench beside Bakura's feet. He faced away from the table with his back leaning against the table edge and his elbows resting on the surface. "I'll let Ishizu know where I am as soon as I can get her to promise she won't hunt me down and coddle me."

"Yes." Bakura danced his fingers across Marik's line of sight. "I'm sure she'll be thrilled to know that you're now roommates with the Evil Spirit of the Millennium Ring."

"I don't think that's a very appropriate title. The Fucking Annoying Spirit of the Millennium Ring, maybe, the Nerdy Gamer Spirit of the Millennium Ring, definitely, but evil? You might have fooled everyone else, but you never fooled me."

Bakura shrugged. "What is evil? I put that question to the Pharaoh once and he never did give me a proper answer."

Marik pursed his lips. "You know, I thought about that a lot during my final duel against the Pharaoh. I only survived that duel because Rishid made me realize that I wasn't just a tomb-guardian, nor was I some evil monster with an alter ego. I was a person." Marik sighed. "I know this is stupid, so keep your comments to yourself, but that concept – that I was a person – really was novel to me." Marik shook his head. "After the duel I went back with them because we were supposed to start over again, but Ishizu wouldn't quit talking about the Pharaoh's Ceremonial Duel. It made everything Rishid said feel like a lie. Like we'd always be stuck in our role as tomb-keepers, not people at all but objects existing only to help the Pharaoh. But then I came here and you . . . " Marik paused and looked away.

Bakura looked at him. He stretched out his hand and tucked a lock of blonde hair behind Marik's ear. "Marik," Bakura whispered, knowing he shouldn't say the next words but unable to stop himself. "You and Ryou are the only reason I remembered what it's like to be human."

Marik exhaled. He pushed himself onto the table so that he was sitting beside Bakura. "That's exactly what I was trying to say to you."

Bakura frowned. "For the first time in thousands of years I don't know what to do. I can't forgive the Pharaoh, but I can't challenge him to a Shadow Game anymore, not without sacrificing my ka again, and that's a price I'm no longer willing to pay."

Marik looked out across the park. "It's too bad the cherry trees have already bloomed. I'd really like to see them."

"No you don't. Those damned festivals are crowded, full of idiots, and it's still cold outside."

Marik smirked. "Hey, Ryou, you should take me next year."

Bakura snorted. "Like I'd let him go."

But Bakura knew it was too late; he could sense Ryou's thoughts as he planned hanami themed bento to prepare for when they went. Bakura tried to scowl, though the thought of combing stray sakura petals out of Marik's hair had a strange appeal to it. Bakura stood up. "We need to go home. We've wasted the entire afternoon here."

Marik smirked. "Promise me."

Bakura turned around to look at Marik sitting on the picnic table. "What?"

"Promise me we'll go next spring."

Bakura leaned towards Marik, their foreheads resting against each other. "I've made deals, but only once did I make a true promise, and I've yet to keep it."

"But you haven't broken it either."

Marik allowed Bakura to help him to his feet. They walked across the park with their arms hooked together. Passing the soccer fields, a stray ball rolled over to them and Marik kicked it back to the playing children. The sun still lit the sky, but it hung low in the horizon, slanting their shadows into long, gaunt monsters. Bakura watched Marik close his eyes and lift his face towards the breeze and the sight made Bakura want to return to their apartment as soon as possible.

"What are you making for dinner?" Marik asked.

"We already ate."

"Dango is not dinner, Bakura."

"Then dinner's whatever you pick up at the store because it's too late to cook."

"Store bought bento it is."

They ate at the table. Bakura sketched in one of his notebooks in between bites. Marik leaned forward to peek at the drawing, but Bakura shifted the paper away from his line of sight.

Marik set his chopsticks down and asked, "what are you drawing?"

"None of your business."

"Do I have to steal your notebook again?"

"Better not."

"Yeah? How are you going to stop me?"

"Marik, if you take this damn picture I will not finish it. I will toss it in the trash; I'm not bluffing."

Marik propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin on the platform of his hands. "Now I'm dying to find out what you're drawing."

"If you die, you won't get to see it when it's finished."

"How long do I have to wait?"

Bakura smiled, peeking up from the notebook with his pencil still in hand. "That depends on how many stupid questions you ask me. At this rate, I'll have it done in a year or two."

"Fine, fine." Marik pouted.

He watched Bakura work. Marik noted how intent but calm Bakura's expression became while drawing, as if his pencil activated a valve that allowed the steam pent up in his system to released itself. Bakura used his fingers to smear the granite across the paper for shading, heedless to the gray smudges coating his fingers. Without warning, Bakura stood up and went over to the craft table where his and Ryou's diorama sat. He dug under the table, opening and shutting two other cases filled with various craft supplies before he found what he was looking for and brought a broad, black box to the dining room table.

Marik peered into the box, keeping his eyes away from the paper. "Are those pastels?"

Bakura grunted in agreement.

"I've never seen any of your pictures in color before."

Bakura repeated the grunt. "This is a bit of an experiment. If it doesn't turn out I'm destroying the picture."

"Like hell you are. You can't build up the suspense like that and then deny me satisfaction of seeing it. That's not fair."

"Life isn't fair. Now shut-up because I don't want to fuck this up."

Marik went back to watching him. A smile grew on Marik's face as the smudges on Bakura's fingers and hands brightened with color. Soft beige, bright marigold, powder blue, a deep purple and a vibrant maroon, Marik chewed his bottom lip as he watched the pristine, white canvas of Bakura's skin saturate with color.

"It looks like a rainbow ejaculated on your hands."

Bakura glance at his hands and the smears of colors snaking up his arms. "It washes off."

"Next you'll want to finger paint."

"With melted chocolate all over your chest."

Marik didn't expect the dirty comment, but it resonated with the thoughts germinating in the back of his mind, and suddenly Marik didn't care about the drawing. He stood up and walked around the table to Bakura's side, picking up a random yellow crayon and leaning forward. He drew a large, crude smiley face on Bakura's arm.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"You won't let me look at your picture so I'm drawing my own."

"And you said I'd want to finger paint when you're the one doodling on me like a three-year-old coloring on walls."

"Like I'd have done that as a child," Marik said, not really thinking about his words. "For one, we never had crayons or markers, and if we did and I mis-used them – my father would have beat the hell out of me." Marik's stomach hitched in a bad way, making his intestines cramp. The statement conjured memories of dark hallways and the constant fear of laughing or even speaking too loud. Kernels of Marik's childhood exploded into his mind like corn popping in a heated pot.

When it was he, Rishid, and Ishizu, they would play games and laugh, albeit as quiet as possible, but if his father was in earshot there was silence. They were tomb-guardians; they had to stay vigilant; they had to prepare themselves for the coming of the Pharaoh. Marik remembered getting angry as he sat in front of papyrus scrolls and stone slabs, reading about the Pharaoh. He was angry that he couldn't get up and stretch his legs, angry that he couldn't go outside, but he always had to push the feelings down. Down into the dark of his thoughts, too far down for him to get to them because if he'd shown anger his father would respond with anger. Like when he was eight and–

Marik blinked. He realized he was on the ground with shaking hands resting on his knees. The yellow stick of color rolled under the table. Marik also realized that Bakura was on the ground with him, holding his shoulders, but Marik couldn't remember his knees striking the floor. He shook his head, disoriented. "Did I just black out? I-I-Bakura—"

"Stop it," Bakura ordered, "you're fine. You didn't change, stop worrying, you simply spaced out for a second."

"I can't let it happen again. I can't lose control. I can't."

"Goddammit," Bakura cursed, "I'm glad you killed that bastard, Marik."

At first Marik thought Bakura meant his alter ego, but then he realized that's not who he meant. Marik shook his head, confused. "You mean my father?"

"Yes."

"But he was my father, Bakura!"

"I don't care if he was Osiris – he had no right. If I ever, ever, saw anyone hit you I'd fucking kill them, and I'm glad you killed him. Sounds like justice to me."

"No, it wasn't like that."

"Then what happened, Marik?"

Marik jerked out of Bakura's hold. "You know I don't remember. All I know is what I heard others say at Battle City. Apparently I went crazy and my alter ego stabbed him."

"The fact that you still can't remember is why I think he deserved it. Gods, Marik." Bakura bent forward and planted small, soothing kisses on Marik's forehead. Bakura's lips felt cool against Marik's feverish skin and Marik leaned into the kisses, sighing from the relief they provided. Bakura's mouth lingered around Marik's forehead, but eventually traveled down to Marik's flushed face. Marik's sighs transformed into breathy gasps. He opened his mouth wide and inhaled deep breaths. The urge to touch Bakura overwhelmed him and he slid his fingers under Bakura's t-shirt, tracing the contours of Bakura's chest. Marik's fingertips caught Bakura's right nipple and Bakura pulled a sharp breath into his lungs. He exhaled into Marik's mouth, pressing their lips together.

Their fingers glided over each other's skin as their mouths moved together. Bakura moved to stand up and banged his head against the table. He held a hand to his white hair and cursed, and Marik laughed at the scowl on Bakura's face.

"Bakura." Marik stood and helped Bakura get to his feet without abusing the furniture. "I'm fine now. Let's go to bed."

"Exactly what I was thinking." He paused. "Are you really fine?"

Marik shook his head yes. He pushed Bakura towards their room.

Bakura walked backwards, never letting Marik's mouth stray too far from his own. When they entered the bedroom, Marik eased Bakura down onto the sheets. They kicked socks from their feet, slid shirts up over their heads, and stripped the pants from their lower bodies. They lay there, Marik pressed on top of Bakura. Their hands refused to leave a single inch of their bodies unexplored. Marik circled his hips down into Bakura's groin; their erections pressed together. Bakura opened his legs, encouraging Marik to take what he wanted.

Marik reached over for their bottle of lube, kissing Bakura's stomach as he prepared to enter him. He held Bakura's base and flicked his tongue against the tip to hear the moan lift from Bakura's mouth as his hips squirmed. Marik pulled Bakura's shaft into his mouth until he felt the tip hit the back of his throat. He repeated the action three times and, on the third, pulled his mouth away and guided himself into Bakura's body. They'd barley begun, but Bakura already moaned at the ceiling, his hands clawing for purchase on the white bed sheets.

The oddest thought slipped unbidden into Marik's head – that since he now planned on staying, he needed to purchase more colorful sheets. He liked the thought of Bakura naked, stretched out, and stark white on a backdrop of lavender or ocher. Marik pushed the idea to the side, the moment too exquisite to waste his thoughts on décor. Marik lifted Bakura's legs up higher. Every time Bakura clenched his inner muscles Marik felt the effect around his cock and he panted loud as he drove harder into Bakura's body. Bakura reached out, fingers continuing to trace up Marik's arms and over his chest. His fingertips dipped down to Marik's thighs and his nails scrapped across Marik's hips. Marik's pants changed to ecstatic grunts. He watched Bakura's eggshell-white body glisten with sweat. Layers of color still covered Bakura's hands and the pigments bled into the sheets. Marik noticed the smiley face on Bakura's arm had melted into a bright yellow smear.

Marik almost laughed at the images, but stopped because he knew if he started laughing tears would follow. His chest hurt when he looked at Bakura, a beautiful, delicate pain that tingled down into Marik's fingertips. Marik leaned forward so that their chests could press together. Bakura locked his arms around Marik's neck and nuzzled his nose into Marik's shoulder, kissing his collarbone. Marik groaned into Bakura's ear, his pace increasing. Bakura continued to move his hips up to meet Marik, continued to clench his pelvic muscles tight around Marik's body, continued to brush his lips feather-soft against the crook of Marik's neck. Marik felt everything shudder and unravel as he came.

He continued thrusting as long as he could, until his dwindling erection could no longer penetrate. Marik pulled out and plotted out a trail of kisses down Bakura's body until he reached Bakura's phallus, still quite hard. He swirled the tip of his tongue against Bakura's swollen head, lapping and teasing the taunt, smooth skin. When he sucked he did so slow, savoring each smooth inch against his tongue.

Bakura lay still and allowed Marik to do as he pleased. Only Bakura's hands betrayed his impatience, clenching the sheets one moment, gripping Marik's forearms the next, and then sliding up to Marik's shoulders. Bakura's fingernails dug into Marik's skin, at first careful and mindful of Marik's scars, but then needful and fierce. Bakura's resolve broke; he scrambled his fingers into Marik's hair, twisting and tugging his fingers into the strands until they were tight like reigns. Bakura bounced his hips up and down, pushing hard and fast into Marik's mouth while making what Marik considered to be his "Ryou noises". Marik kept his mouth open wide but his lips drawn tight, allowing Bakura to take charge. Bakura came thick and hot into the back of Marik's mouth. Marik swallowed, the semen coating his throat. Bakura crashed into the mattress, small moans still escaping his mouth with each exhale as he recovered.

Marik wiped excess saliva away from his lips with the back of his hand and pulled himself up the mattress until his was laying next to Bakura. He slipped his arm under Bakura's head and Bakura pressed his face against the side of Marik's chest. Bakura's skin burned and Marik looked down to see his bright red countenance, relaxed and near sleep.

Marik spoke, his tone soft. "It's hard to believe it's only been a little over a week."

A slight grin tugged at the top corner of Bakura's mouth. "Well, you know, it never takes long for things to escalate out of control when we're involved."

Marik snorted. He stared at the ceiling for a moment. "I feel wide awake."

Bakura grunted.

Marik nudged his elbow into Bakura's side. "Entertain me, Bakura."

Bakura rolled over to escape Marik's prodding elbow. "Thought that's what I just did."

Marik reached over and twisted a strand of Bakura's hair into a rope. "If I sleep . . . I'll dream."

Bakura rolled back towards Marik. "Have you ever played Renju?"

"No, but I bet I'm beating you at it by the end of the night."

A smirk twisted the corner of Bakura's lip as game-lust lit up his brown eyes. "Get Ryou's Go board and I'll make tea."

They sprung from the bed and raced out the room, eager to compete against each other.

***AN: Just think of what Bakura's Deviant Art account would look like.***