Hey homies. So, this is a much more serious piece. Take it with a grain of salt-- it's from a much bigger OC universe that my friend and I rp occassionally. Yep, I'm that asshole who rp's YuGiOh characters after the age of 15. 8DDD I'm fucking RAD.

Anyway, quick notes: ~There will be OOCness. Not too much, and all of it I believe is acceptable and probable ~Flaming is gay, and so are you if you do it. Just be nice about it, it's not that hard ~This is more of a character development than anything else; I'm practicing ~Inspired off of the 100 themes challenge list floating around the Interwebs ~ R and R, even if you hate it. Just let me know.

36. Precious treasure

Marik headed towards the automatic doors of the grocery store, a bag of goods dangling from his forearm. With a dutiful sigh, he zipped his winter jacket up to his chin and threw his scarf around his neck twice. With gloves already on, he pushed his hands deep into his pockets and braced himself for the biting cold. The desert native stepped out into the dark city streets, blinking as the wind blew his bangs into his eyes.

"Fucking winter," he grumbled to himself, taking a left for home. The neon lights of the stores around him reflected crazily in the puddles below his feet. Wet leaves hurled themselves through the air, plastering onto whatever they struck. Marik shook one off his shoe in utter annoyance when he noticed that fat, sporadic snowflakes had begun to fall. His lip twitched in disdain, but he simply continued on, avoiding puddles gracefully. He noted without much surprise that very few other people were out. A single man was standing at a bus depot, three college aged girls were walking past him in the other direction, and two bundled figures were smoking outside a restaurant front. Weather, and the fact that it was almost 11 o'clock at night, explained this scarcity of humanity, even though it was the city. He normally would never stand to live in a place where temperatures could get so low, let alone somewhere where it could SNOW. But, this is where Bakura had picked, and he would sacrifice his wants for the man. Besides, Bakura had methods of helping him warm up, and this little thought made Marik smile. He knew that the Thief King was at home, waiting for him. The two would be alone, a rare treat, and Marik felt a shiver race down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

Marik fingered the phone in his pocket, thinking about giving Bakura a quick ring just to let him know he was on his way home. Maybe give him a chance to prepare, let him plan what he wanted to do with him… Marik smiled devilishly to himself, and decided it was a very, very good idea. With that, he pulled out the device and quickly dialed his boyfriends number.-

Bakura was sitting at home on the couch, cross legged and scribbling notes onto a legal pad. A French book was flipped open in front of him, listing derivatives. Being English, he already had an intense, inbred dislike for the French, and he was finding it harder and harder to give a shit about the sentences in his homework. He had made the mistake of writing his notes in pen, and there were several dark, blocked out areas. The whitenette wondered if he was even going to be able to understand the notes later when he went back and read them. With a frustrated sigh, he realized he had answered the same question twice, right next to one another. Taking it as a sign he was finished for the evening, he tossed the pen and paper onto the coffee table. He slouched down into the cushions and flipped the cover of the book shut with a well aimed kick. He remained sedentary there for several minutes, letting his mind clear itself. As it did, the tasty thought of his boyfriend rose to the surface. A small smirk spread over his lips, revealing the points of his sharp canine teeth. The apartment was empty, and he knew that Marik was well aware of this. He knew Marik would be home soon, and that he'd be cold from the walk. He also knew that Marik would want to be warmed up, and boy, did he have several scintillating ideas on how to do it.

Almost as if on cue, his pocket vibrated hard, sending a violent shiver across his pelvis. With a quiet groan that turned into a throaty laugh, he withdrew it. The accompanying grin broadened when he saw 'Marik' flash brightly across the caller ID screen. Relaxing back into the couch once more, he flipped open the phone and said,

"Well well well, it appears all I have to do it think about you now and I shall receive."

On the other end of the line, Marik laughed happily, the sound crackled due to the wind around him.

"Hello to you too, Bakura. Was I really on your mind?" Marik asked suggestively, and Bakura could tell he was smiling.

"You were indeed. I'm sitting all alone in this bloody apartment, with nothing to tame my thoughts. They're running absolutely WILD…" Bakura growled.

"Oh, that sounds like quite a problem. Perhaps I could help you tame them when I get back… Which is why I'm calling," Marik crooned in response. Bakura let his eyes shut as he pleasantly fantasized about the near future.

"Tell me you're on your way, please," the tomb robber said lowly, eagerness coloring his tone.

Marik let out a sultry laugh, turning it into a soft moan at the end. Bakura felt himself stiffen; he knew Marik was biting his lower lip through a smile, a look that drove him insane with desire.

"I'm at Silber Street, I'll be home in 10 minutes…. I hope it's warm, because I'm freezing, Bakura…" Marik breathed into the phone. Bakura's hand balled up in his lap, and he tipped his head back, trying to calm his now excited body.

"I'll have no problem warming you up, Marik," the whitenette assured him huskily.

"Mmm, I hope not. May take several hours to get the feeling back to every part of me…" came the hushed reply.

"Walk faster," Bakura urged, now sitting forward, running his hand through his hair feverishly. His foot tapped with anticipation, and it was all he could do to keep himself sitting still.

Marik laughed again, knowing he was pushing his boyfriends buttons.

"Calm down Bakura! I'll be there soo-" Marik began. Bakura, deep in his own fantasy world, came back a little when the Egyptian on the other end didn't finish his sentence.

"Marik?" he asked, puzzled. He listened, and heard Marik yell something sharply.

"S- Sorry. Just some assholes cat calling me," Marik assured him, bringing the phone back to his mouth.

"Oh. Everything ok?" Bakura pushed, not entirely concerned.

"Yeah, they looked drunk. You know," came the slightly forced casual response.

"Ok…" the tomb robber said, settling back down. But just as he was dismissing the incident, he heard Marik gasp and yell again, this time clearly-

"ASSHOLE! Back off!"

Bakura instantly sat bolt upright, previous excitement draining away.

"Marik!?" he asked, panicked. He looked down at the floor, nerves stretching taught as a silence punctuated by inarticulate yelling wound out on the other end of the line. His anticipation funneled into adrenaline, the two emotions swirling together to become one hypersensitive feeling.

"MARIK!" Bakura yelled, now jumping up from his spot, eyes wide with fear. His breathing became shallow, and his free hand began shaking by his side. He could hear Marik's voice through the wind, but he could also hear several others, each sounding threatening.

"MARIK, WHAT'S GOING ON?!" he yelled, voice echoing off the walls around him. Then, he heard Marik scream. There was a rustling of fabric being scratched over the receiver and then the rushing of wind. A loud, dull cracking shot through the phone connection, and instantly, Bakura knew it had been thrown to the ground. Suddenly, Marik screamed,

"BAKURA! BAKUR-"

Then, nothing that could be understood, followed by several deep laughs and rowdy shouting.

The spirit was frozen in that moment of time, not breathing, heart not beating. His only thought was of Marik, and finding him. The shock that had rooted him to the spot broke like ice off of an eve, and suddenly he was sprinting through the apartment. With deftness never afforded to him under normal circumstances, he got on his shoes, slipped into his jacket and pocketed his phone in one fluid motion. He then ripped open the nearest end table drawer and grabbed his butterfly knife: his seven inch one. He silently thanked his decision to hide weapons all over the apartment, despite Marik's demands that he not. He flitted to the door, hearing his keys jangle in his pocket. With the one track mind of a professional killer, he yanked open the door and slammed it as he set off at a run, taking the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator.-

"Mmm, I hope not. It may take several hours to get the feeling back to every part of me…" Marik whispered into the phone. He was enjoying this word play with Bakura. Getting him excited for his return would be beneficial to both of them.

"Walk faster," was Bakura's strained reply. Marik couldn't help but burst into laughter at his partners eagerness. He swayed a little as he walked, alight with happiness.

As he took a deep breath to calm himself, he passed by the mouth of a dead end side street that led to a loading bay. A large dumpster and cans of garbage were normally the only things inhabiting the alley, so Marik didn't even cast it a glance. But tonight, several whooping, hollering men were lurking there as well. They had been drinking for most of the evening, and blowing off steam by rough housing each other. Each man was now in a dangerous state of mind, halfway between blind drunkenness and testosterone fueled highs. They were looking for a good time, for some way to alleviate their aggression. Each one had a history of crime, and two of the four men had toked up earlier that night, rendering them incapable of making good decisions. And unfortunately, one of them happened to spot Marik as he passed, zeroing in on his laughter. He stopped punching at his buddy and instead pointed enthusiastically after the Egyptian, who was oblivious to the attention. His buddies looked in the direction of the point and became equally excited. After several seconds of conspiring in whispers, the group of four drunken men headed out of the side street and casually, silently fell into step behind Marik.

Marik was still laughing, his steps light with anticipation.

"Calm down Bakura! I'll be there soo-" the blonde began when he heard from behind him-

"Hey baby! Hey baby, where you goin'? You all alone tonight honey?"

Marik didn't break stride, turning at the hip to answer. He lowered the phone a little from his mouth, a sneer curling over his lips.

"Fuck you, get lost," he sniped. He then flicked his hair over his shoulder and sped up, ignoring the men who were now laughing.

"Marik?" came the slightly concerned voice on the other end of the line.

"Aw, come on babe! Can't you juss say hi? We juss' wanna say hi! Come on honey-"

"S-Sorry. Just some assholes cat calling me," he explained, trying to sound calm. But now he could hear the men behind him, their footsteps and low laughs sounding as if they were getting closer rather than farther. He refused to look, holding up his head higher, determined that nothing should happen.

"Oh. Everything ok?" Bakura asked. Marik heard the worry seeping over the connection.

"Yeah, they look drunk. You know," the Egyptian said evenly, but now he was feeling panicky. The men behind him were whispering to each other, and it sounded as if they were egging one another on. Marik swallowed hard and broke into a light trot.

"Ok…" was Bakura's unconvinced reply. Marik opened his mouth to say he was sure he'd be fine, when someone grabbed his arm, forcing him to turn and stumble slightly. He gasped in fright, drawing back his arm as if burned. With the wild eyes of a trapped animal, he screamed,

"ASSHOLE! Back off!"

The man who had grabbed his arm was tall and heavily jacketed, and Marik could see only his bleary eyes between his collar and hat brim. Marik staggered back from him, and with horror, noticed the entire group was encroaching upon him.

"Leave me alone!" he yelled, trying to sound confident. But his last word cracked, and it was in that millisecond, he knew he was done for. He panicked, and his mind began to lose its ability to focus. His heart leapt from the starting gate, galloping away at top speed. Two men to his left pulled farther off to the side and picked up a trot, easily and effectively surrounding him. Marik spun in place, feat griping him so badly he almost couldn't breathe. His eyes flickered from each man with despair, and he was mouthing 'No, no no' without ever realizing it. The man who had taken the first grab at him pulled up his pants by the belt loops, laughing loudly with his cohorts. He sort of sidled towards the terrified blonde, who completely forgot in his fear that he was still holding a live line with Bakura. He didn't hear his boyfriend yell his name twice.

"Come on sugar, no need to get upset! We nice fellas juss thought you looked kinda cold, thass all… Thought we could, ya know, warm ya up, is all…" the man crooned as he came closer. Marik's knees had begun to shake, and he slowly backed away from the shadowed man, barely keeping his balance.

"Yeah, lets go sweetheart, you look like you could use some lovin'," one of the drunks behind him added, so close Marik yelped. He wheeled around on him and jumped a little to the side, trying to stay an arm's length away from him.

"G-get away from me!" Marik pressed weakly, but even to his own ears he sounded hopeless.

"No need to be scared, suga', " the shadowed man said lowly, and each of his counterparts laughed fiendishly. One of the men to Mariks right actually licked his lips as they tightened their circle around him.

"S-s-stop it," Marik practically begged, holding out his arm protectively as the first man to grab him came within striking distance. With speed the Egyptian didn't expect, the man lashed out, grabbing onto the bag of groceries hanging off his forearm. Marik screamed, and drew back, breaking into a run. The bags thin plastic handles easily ripped in half, sending it and its contents down onto the wet pavement. Cans clanked unceremoniously, rolling in all directions as the four men instantly gave pursuit. Marik hadn't gotten more than three steps though when one of the men latched onto his wrist. Marik's head snapped sideways as the man anchored himself, forcing the blondes momentum to go on without him. He staggered in the grip, turning to pull himself away. His mind was being tortuously kicked in so many directions, he couldn't form one thought for longer than half a second. All he knew was that the world around him was seemingly growing thinner.

"NO! NO, GET OFF ME!" he screeched, looking around desperately to see if anyone was near to help him. Blackness started to saturate the corners of his eyes, and when the man holding him spoke again, he seemed to be coming from farther away than just an arms reach. Not a single other human being besides the five of them was within eye sight. Not a solitary car was approaching from either direction. As another pair of arms locked around his waist, Marik began to see two of everything, and time began to slow down. Someone ripped the phone out of his hand, and he watched it slam into the ground, a piece of the corner chipping off under the impact. The arms now winding around his body began to drag him away from the phone, and as they did, Marik could hear echoing from inside his own head. Each breath was resoundingly loud, and he felt the erratic banging of his heart all the way through his frame. Suddenly, the air in front of him flickered, changing color. The present stretched thinner and thinner, becoming gauzelike and initiating the feeling of extreme vertigo. And then he sank into his mind completely, the tie between the current and past completely severed. He was 10 years old again, and being dragged down the dimly lit halls of his underground prison. He was screaming, crying, begging for help. He was pulled past his sister and brother, their heads bowed and tongues unresponsive as he pleaded for them to save him, oh please, Sister, Brother, don't let them do this to me, stop them, please!

The arms holding his little body were so much bigger than him, so much stronger. He had no chance, no chance in Heaven and Earth of getting away. Finally, he was pinned down to the alter table, pressed flat onto his stomach, tears streaming down his smooth face. He struggled with his captors, flailing his legs until they too were forced into submission. He was looking around him, seeking anything, anyone who would come to his aid. His violet eyes fell upon his father, standing stonily in the corner.

Father, help me!, he cried. Father please, PLEASE! Don't let them do this! Don't make me do this Father! I love you, please Father- I love you, no, don't, Father- HELP ME! He screamed. His father only stared at him with the eyes of a snake. Dead and black, incapable of feeling anything. Marik screamed and screamed, for help, from pain, it didn't matter; the knife and the frosty eye of his father hurt equally.

As his mind bent inward upon itself, voices from the present began to penetrate their way in. Hands were all over him, pulling, tugging, eagerly seeking to explore their new pray. Marik's memory was suddenly punched through when he heard one of the men whoop right in his ear, declaring,

"SHIT! This mutha fucka's a MAN! It's a fucking MAN! Fucking hell, Dom, it's a fucking FAGGIT!"

The word sliced it's way into Marik's heart, hurling his mind out of its dizzying regress and back into the frozen present. His eyes had slid shut, and they fluttered back open. He was now about 15 feet from where they had grabbed him, and his eyes locked onto the phone laying upon the asphalt. A mere three seconds or so must have passed, but to the captive boy, he felt as though his entire life had been replayed. Through the swirling decay of his thoughts, one name seared across his vision, lighting up his entire soul and enabling him to suck in one long, deep breath. He screamed it as loud as he possibly could, giving up much of his fleeting strength to do it-

"BAKURA! BAKUR-"

A hand smacked him across the face, intensified by the frigid air. It stung bitterly, driving the blonde away from consciousness. All the force of Marik's scream was knocked out, and all around him, his captors began laughing.

"Ain't nobody gonna save you now, pretty boy," a rough voice assured him in his ear. Marik let out a weak moan in response, eyes unable to focus on the voices initiator. He tried to curl in on himself, unsure if Bakura had even heard him. Then he was being pulled again, shuffled down to the alley where the creatures attacking him had first spotted their target.

His heels dragged, for he couldn't seem to find any strength to carry himself. He was only aware of what he felt, and even that was quickly numbing. Unseen arms had bound up his hands behind him, and there were roaming fingers, brands of ice, raking over his skin. Hands went up his shirt, pinching and bruising. Others ripped at his pants, forcing their way in, kneading and clawing, feverishly looking for something; Marik wasn't quite sure what. He couldn't remember anything anymore. His name became inconsequential, his history, his future. The vivid flashback from only moments before had faded out of mind, sponged up by blackness. The only thing he could think of was Bakura. It beat in time with the pulse in his neck, the only thing assuring him he wasn't already dead.

Suddenly, there was something warm behind his ear, and he was jerked up farther, not knowing he was slipping. Only his captors were holding him upright at this point, and the warmth was a tongue, taste testing its new candy. Marik gasped as his hips were violently yanked forward, forcing unimaginably hot contact with the unwelcome hand down his front. Voices were whispering, laughing, mocking him. They were pressing in on all sides, shoving themselves into his ear, raping his mind as well as his skin. Bakura, I need your help, I hope to God you heard me-

"Stop…" he breathed between pants. He heard the laughter in response, the cooing tones of a rebuttal, and felt a sharp pain that then knifed its way up his side. He had been punched hard in the ribs, and any air that had been circulating in him was gone. He folded in the grasps of his captives, eyes watering as his mouth hung open, seeking the air just beyond it. After an agonizing life time, air did flow again, and the men holding him wasted no time initiating a new form of torture. The bronze boy was forcefully drawn into a standing position, welded tightly front to back with one of the men. His chin was grabbed and squeezed, forcing his mouth open. A bottle clicked against his tooth as the neck was forced in. Marik tried to shake his head, but was held still, and as the bottle neck slide further in, a familiarly hot liquid spread over his tongue and down his throat. The bottle was pulled out suddenly, leaving him to try and swallow the contents.

Vodka. They were force feeding him vodka. He coughed and wretched violently as the burning coated his already dry throat. He groaned as cold air rushed down into his lungs, only serving to accentuate the pain. The liquid ran over the corners of his mouth, winding icy trails long his bare neck. More voices, more whispering, more groping, endlessly ransacking his body. Time became irrelevant, the motions of the world ceased to make sense. Then he was being pushed to the ground, arms still tied up in someone's vice grip. Marik was willing himself towards unconsciousness, thinking still only of Bakura, how he needed him, how nothing in the world would ever compare to him, oh please God, anyone, let him have heard me, please let him find me, I need him, I need him right now-

Someone pulled his hair, tipping his head back, opening his mouth with a thick, salty finger. Bakura please, I need Bakura, anyone out there, please, help me-

There was a metallic scratching sounds, and Marik knew, he just knew, it was a zipper being undone, and now the tears were real, he bit at the finger in his mouth with the last of his fading consciousness to keep himself from screaming for them. He would give them nothing extra, no added satisfaction. He was pushing his limit to the brink, forcing himself to reach for the black. He wanted to be gone, away from what was happening. He wanted to be dead, to be unable to feel. Bakura, please, I'm sorry, but I won't let them take me, I can't do this again, the first time almost killed me, you are the only one I love, but I can't do it, I just can't, I won't, forgive me, but I'd rather DIE-

Bakura had never run so fast in any of his lives. Each snowflake that flitted into his face stung, as if to keep him awake and alert. He was plenty of both.

He swerved around puddles and leapt them if he couldn't, skirted the few people he did happen to pass on the sidewalks and flew over the slushy pavement just as if it were bone dry. Each footfall echoed off the last and next, turning into one streaming sound that kept him focused. Silber Street, Silber Street, he said he was at Silber Street.

"I'll be home in 10 minutes-"

"Oh. Everything ok?..."

"Yeah, they look drunk. You know-…"

How could something go so grotesquely wrong so quickly? The Thief King didn't let his mind become too bound up in the thought. His consciousness was hysterical with thoughts of Marik, and each passing second in his flight yielded bloodier and bloodier thoughts. His heart was at his throat, assuring his rationalistic brain that Marik would be okay, that he'd be in time to rescue him. He would be able to save him, to protect him like he promised he would. Bakura would wrap his arms around him, assure him he'd never be hurt again, that he was here and he loved him, that he was the only thing that mattered, and the only thing that would EVER matter…

Then he would cease to exist for a time, allowing the evil that wrested with him constantly to reign free. He'd slit all of their throats, whoever it was who made the unfortunate mistake of trying to steal his treasure. The only thing in the world he admittedly cared about, the only human being he ever shared a bond with, the only living mortal who he actually wanted to say 'I love you' to and MEAN it, and some fucking cock sucking assholes thought they were going to take him away? The whitenette thought not. Marik belonged to HIM, and him alone, and no one was to ever touch him if he didn't want it. None but he was allowed access to Marik, and woe be him who thought otherwise. He would strangle one of them, whichever one had gotten the farthest in raping his treasure by the time Bakura had found them. He would kneel on their throat, watch their face turn that ruddy red, maybe be lucky enough to see a vessel rupture, spilling blood into their God forsaken eye. He would slit one of their throats upward, sinking the blade in at the crux of the jugular and the underside of the jaw, allow himself the pleasure of their warm blood running over his hand. He would slit another's horizontally, and lean over him, telling him to scream, scream for me you asshole, oh, you can't, because I've cut your motherfucking throat, how dare you touch him, how dare you try and hurt him, you're lucky he's still alive, because if you had killed him, I would've spun out your torture for years and YEARS, and you'd have begged me to kill you, because it would've ended your miserable shit of a life-

Bakura rounded another corner and pulled up, eyes darting to the sign above him.

Silber Street.

The intense rush of relief at having made it there so quickly faded away almost instantaneously as he looked up the empty sidewalk. The spirits dark eyes caught sight of several things that made his heart stop, his mind shirk away and his blood cool. A split open bag of groceries littered a 5 foot radius not more than twenty feet from where he stood, and Bakura could easily pick out Marik's hair conditioner, despite the darkness. In that dragging moment, he could even read the label, and see the bright orange rectangle of a price tag reading '14.99'. Bakura took a numb breath, feeling pressure squeezing his temples. Not far from the tell tale bottle was Marik's cell phone, the screen cracked and a corner chipped away. It was flashing idiotically, as if trying to tell its owner to 'hang up, stupid, no-one's on the other end!'. Except it's owner was not there- he was being ravaged somewhere, being forced to submit himself to the worst defilement possible. Something in the whitenettes lower body shifted, and the full gravity of the world sunk into his legs, drawing him down. A sharp exhale shot from his lips, and anger, the likes of which he never could recall feeling, erupted inside of him. He took one step forward and staggered. The insanity of hatred he felt now was terrifying, unbelievably sharp and acrid. He inhaled once again, eyes trained unrelentingly on the phone laying on the pavement. He was slipping, back into what he used to be, back into who he once walked the Earth as. And he welcomed it. Everything fell easily back into place, fitting into the hollows and crooks inside his soul that had lain dormant since he'd found kinship with Marik. It filled him up slowly, and soon there was no spot uncoated with black hatred. All of this happened quickly, while the world waited, and when he again tried to walk up the street again, his gait was sure, steady and purposeful. Gone were the tremors of anxiety, trepidations and concern. He was feral, raw, and his only thought was of finding Marik. Anyone who had touched him had no chance of survival now.

The senses that accompanied such a state of being caused the spirit to slow himself, to listen to the world around him. Patience was rewarded. He lifted his obsidian eyes to the street before him, thinking that whoever had grabbed Marik couldn't have gotten far. His eyes drifted, drifted over the alleys yawning onto the street, drifted to the many doors studding the buildings facing him. The heavy snowfall didn't even register in his vision; they were useless, couldn't tell him anything and therefore dismissed. Then he heard it; just a small sound, a low laugh. It mixed with the wind fluttering past him, but to him, it was clear, definitive, and very very close. The spirit stalked forward, head lowered, past the phone, past the groceries, towards the noise. As he approached the gaping, dark alley from which he heard the laugh, more furtive whispers and chuckling reached him. He didn't even need his old heightened senses to know that these were the sounds he was looking for. Bakura rounded the corner of the alley, silent as a shadow, slipping his hand into his jacket pocket. He withdrew his knife and stopped, standing with the weapon unopened at his side. Staring into the darkness, he could see six figures, and immediately he identified Marik. He was being held from behind, kneeling, his face tipped upward. From Bakura's quick observation, he didn't appear to be conscious; the man unzipping his pants in front of him was holding his chin up, and his eyes were shut. The spirits eyes flashed briefly at the situation, at the thought of what the man was about to do to HIS Marik. The animosity inside him forced a low growl out of his throat, and even his voice was the old voice, the old tone and pitch readily reestablishing itself. The small sound was all it took to capture the men's attention; they all stopped moving, their faces sliding from their drunken grins into suspicious lines. Bakura wasn't looking at them though. He couldn't get away from Marik, couldn't make himself look elsewhere. It didn't matter that he'd fallen back into his old self- the Egyptian was the only thing that mattered, still the only person who held the spirit from rioting off into his own psychosis. As the whitenette looked at Marik, his head cocked to the side just a fraction, and he shouted in his head, firmly-

'Marik'.

Then, aloud,

"Let go of him,"

The men simply stared, and eventually they looked around to one another, sharing glances that read 'is he crazy?'. None yet spoke however; something about the singular man before them was wrong, and although they couldn't have put it into words, their instincts (drunk or otherwise) could feel it. Bakura took his time searing each of the men with his gaze, despite knowing they couldn't see his eyes. Again in his mind, he yelled for Marik. This time, the blonde stirred dazedly, his eyes attempting to open. Bakura's overtaken heart stirred regardless of its dark eclipse.

"Marik," he said lowly, again fixating upon his face, hoping in a far away part of his mind that the Egyptian would recognize his voice.

He did. Marik's eyes shot open, and the fierce look of hope welling in them pushed Bakura over the edge. His mouth dropped open just a fraction, jaw taught, his teeth showing over his lower lip. His lover held his gaze for a good solid five seconds, and then he whispered,

"Bakura,"

He went limp again in his captors arms, and that was the end of Bakura's awareness for a time-

Note: A butterfly knife is a brand of pocket knife that swings open on both ends, life butterfly wings. It slides together to form one long blade. Look it up. 8D