They'd taken enough tango lessons to get the hang of the moves, but eventually quit because they got bored with the structure of class learning; however, they hadn't quit practicing. Music changed their kitchen into their personal dance studio. They wore loose cloth slacks, their feet and chests bare.
From opposite ends of the kitchen, they stepped towards each other, each step accenting a beat. When the drew together, Bakura turned away. His hair flicked out like a horse's mane during a gallop. Marik caught Bakura's wrist and pulled him close. Bakura spun into Marik's copper chest as Marik used his left hand to hold Bakura's cheek for a moment before Bakura pulled away again. They circled around the kitchen, their feet never straying from the syncopation of the music.
Marik played aggressor, moving close. Bakura moved away, but then stopped so he could be "caught". They stood together in a closed position. Step-step-step-step and a pause so Bakura could hook his right leg behind Marik's calves, then out, and then back around Marik.
When they started, they thought they'd argue over who would lead, but Marik always lead because Bakura loved performing the ganchos and spins. He said leading bored him.
Neither spoke, it was one of the few times they never argued. How could you fight when the music demanded every thread of your body and thoughts? It'd be a wasted moment.
Marik dipped Bakura as the music ended. They both panted for breath, droplets of sweat dancing down their chests. Their gazes held together and they were still silent. Marik didn't pull Bakura back up for the next song; instead, he lowered him to the cool floor and kissed him.
They made love like they danced; silent, sweating, panting, in a closed position, and with Bakura's legs hooked around Marik.