This chapter is dedicated to those who never give up hope. The occasional message on tumblr has kept this fic in the back of our minds through so many life events.

It may have taken us over six years, but here it is, a new chapter. We sincerely hope you enjoy it.

As ever, all the good stuff is Borath's.

Kaiba was dripping with sweat from his exertions on stage. The first thing he wanted on reaching the dressing room was a towel; the next, a short, needling blast of cold water in the shower; and the last, a few choice words with his bandmates. However, in line with the general theme of the evening so far, he was to get none of these things. Kaiba stormed up to one of his carefully-selected security guards and grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket. "What in the hell is going on in there?"

"After-show party, Mr. Kaiba, sir." The guard threw a glance back towards the door, from which a pounding beat was emanating. "Mr. Mokuba authorised it."

"Did he indeed." Kaiba released the guard, throwing open the door to the dressing room and closing it again just as swiftly when he was met by the sound of a dozen shrieking fans.

"They all have passes, sir," said the guard apologetically.

"And these passes allow them entry to my dressing room?"

The guard shrugged. "Just following Mr. Mokuba's orders, sir."

Kaiba growled and braved the over-excited throng, pushing through clutching hands to find his errant brother. The room had been barely large enough for the band. Now, between the band, the crew and the groupies, plus a sound system that was far too powerful for the space, it was a sweltering, ear-splitting pit of Hades.

Someone thrust a bottle into Kaiba's hand. It was slightly sticky and, on closer inspection, open and mostly empty. He tossed it to the floor, where it rolled forlornly until it came to rest at a roadie's feet. A model type with artfully dark roots and smudged red lipstick shouted something in his ear. It could have been a request for another drink; it could equally have been an invitation to join a demon summoning circle, for all he could hear it. Kaiba shoulder-barged her out of the way and squeezed through, looking for a shock of black hair in need of a haircut and a lecture on overstepping authority.

Yugi and Ryou perched on the shelf-like table that ran the length of the dressing room walls, behind the speakers in an effort to protect their ears. Ryou had tied his jumper around his neck and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt in concession to the heat, but the fabric still clung uncomfortably around his spine. Yugi perked up as the door to the dressing room opened, stretching up to get a better view.

"Kaiba's just come in," he shouted to Ryou. "That's the last of the band." His eyes tracked Kaiba across the room, watching him head towards Yami and veer away at the last moment as he spotted Bakura.

"What do you think are the chances of me getting Bakura home at a sensible time tonight?" The adrenaline had kept Ryou going this far, but the environment of the dressing room was starting to make him itch.

Yugi offered Ryou a smile of commiseration. "I don't think tonight is a night for 'sensible'." He'd deliberately kept his distance from Yami, wanting to allow the former spirit space to develop his own friendships, but that was starting to seem like a bad plan in light of Yami's proximity to Bakura.

"Incredible, more like," Ryou chewed on his lip thoughtfully. "I know how dedicated he can be, but I wasn't sure he'd actually pull this off. And with a critical injury, too!"

"You sound almost proud," Yugi said.

"I am," said Ryou softly, lost in the cheers as the DJ mixed in the next track.

"Mokuba."

The voice cut through the music, as if daring it to drown him out. Mokuba begrudgingly broke eye contact with the cute redhead he'd been cultivating, and pressed her hand in promise of return. His other arm was around the waist of the black-haired girl. He squeezed that too. It was sound business sense to keep options open.

"Mokuba!" Kaiba drummed his fingers impatiently against his crossed arms.

"Yes, Seto?" Mokuba stood forward and smoothed down his rumpled shirt.

"I'm given to understand this invasion is your fault?"

Mokuba grinned, shrugged and gestured to his ears.

"I know you can hear me. Where, exactly, am I supposed to shower?" Kaiba indicated the throng behind. "Am I supposed to wait until the sweat from these bodies forms its own weather system, and attempt to clean myself in the ensuing fetid downpour?"

"This way," shouted Mokuba, dragging his brother back to the door and up the corridor. The party sounds dimmed as they followed it around corners to a final shabby red door. Mokuba produced a key, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. "Here, Seto. You won't be disturbed. Just lock it after you and give me the key when you come back."

Kaiba looked around at the cracked and faded tiles of the shower room, the beige plastic of the squat stool lurking under the halfway detached towel rail, the grimly blackened grout and the ceiling threatening likewise. "It won't do."

"Yes it will," said Mokuba, handing over a bag containing a towel and toiletries, as well as a change of clothes. "You paid to hire the venue, not remodel the bathrooms."

Kaiba grabbed the bag peremptorily. "Duly noted for next time."

"Promise me you'll come by the party when you're done, Seto? I'll introduce you to some industry types who could be really helpful for you and Thieves of Love."

"I'll think about it," Kaiba growled, but still Mokuba's beseeching smile softened his expression.

Yami had retreated from the overwhelming heat of the dressing room into the hallway, moving further down towards the stage door so that the music wasn't actually thumping in his chest. He sipped water and rested his head and shoulders back against the cold wall, shutting his eyes as he tried to will away the muzziness he felt. He'd been on water for half an hour now, but it was only just beginning to help. Despite Bakura's best efforts at being a bad influence, alcohol was still new to him.

Bakura followed him out minutes later, bearing no pretense with the almost-empty bottle of rum swinging from his arm. He came to stand against the opposite wall to the Pharaoh and took a long swig, swallowing with a grunted laugh. "Not a bad first gig, hey Atem?"

Opening his eyes to the taller man, Yami's response was dry. "'Yami', please." He dragged a hand down his face, absently wondering if he'd been able to feel his nose before or if the numbness was new. "You know that isn't my name, though Ra knows what nicknames I'm going to end up with after tonight."

"Yeah, you were a little snake charmer out there," Bakura smirked, swilling the rum about the bottle before setting it aside atop the radiator to his right. Straightening, he crossed the tiled floor to stand almost on the other spirit's boots, arms folded.

Yami tipped his head with a scowl, unperturbed by his proximity. Experience had taught him that the closer to hand Bakura was, the less trouble he could cause.

Bakura's hands slid down to his hips, making his posture more of a loom. He tipped his head back a little so as to sneer down. "And 'Yami' isn't a name. It's what you were. You can't be called a thing, *Pharaoh*."

"And that's worse than stealing your Hikari's name, *Bakura*?" Yami snapped back, leaning into the goad with teeth bared. " As if you hadn't already taken enough?"

At the flash of heat, Bakura grinned and pressed his hands against the wall to either side of Yami's head, crowding him backwards.

Yami's eyes widened before he regained control, schooling his expression back into something hard and bold.

The fleeting expression was a red flag. Bakura charged at it joyfully. He grinned and ducked his head, bringing their gazes level.

"He's just a giver. Kind of like me. Giving you a chance, a job." Despite himself, his eyes tracked down, and he recalled the sinuous movements of their lead singer on the stage. Only now he didn't have a guitar occupying his hands. "Somewhere to put this, delightful new body to use."

Jerking as if burnt, Yami scoffed and made to barge away, but several hours of drinking on top of physical exhaustion left him staggering into Bakura's chest. He froze with a sharp inhale, suddenly hyper-aware of the other's solid, physical heat.

Touch wasn't a comparable sensation whilst they had been spirits, and since coming into a mortal body, he'd had very little contact with anyone. Yugi held his arm, his hand occasionally, but nothing like this full-body press. He felt skin against his skin, a chest rising and falling with breath against his own, hot breath and surprisingly soft hair against his neck. Without conscious thought, Yami turned his head into that warmth, eyes half-closed, and met a pressure against his mouth that nudged him back into the wall.

The part of his mind that could have protested, or at least asked what the hell he thought he was doing, was silenced by the sheer overwhelmingness of these new sensations.

Bakura, for his part, didn't have a single trace of internal conflict as stepped in so that their hips were flush, hands moving to cup the Pharaoh's jaw and twine into his hair. The sensation of kissing, of being kissed, was strange and new and addictive, as if some kind of charge was building that would inevitably lead to somewhere even better. It didn't even matter whose mouth this was, whose lower lip he nipped - just that these touches and sensations didn't stop. He didn't need to imagine anyone, eyes closed and one hand running firmly down throat and chest to come up beneath the black shirt in search of more skin.

Yami grabbed his wrist with a start, sense slamming home with enough force to leave him breathless. When Bakura pulled back his expression was unreadable, and Yami searched the suddenly-foreign eyes for... something. Some clue as to what the Hell had just happened.

He swallowed with a click, and it seemed to break the spell.

Bakura stepped back, his expression deceptively neutral, and picked up the bottle again. His jaw worked as if to speak, then tightened instead. The smirk he gave was obviously forced - aggressively nonchalant - and he twisted his hips a little as he turned away.

Still resting his weight against the wall, though perhaps now more to actually keep him upright, Yami ran a head across his mouth and through his hair with a shiver. He watched Bakura walk away, uncertain if he wanted him to look back. Or come back. That… wasn't something he felt particularly comfortable ruminating upon whilst his head was in this state.

Then, in a disjointed series of realisations, Yami saw Bakura reach the dressing room door and go straight inside because *it had been left open*. And the occupants weren't so occupied at all and were looking down the corridor and they had been seen.

Feeling distinctly sick, he closed his eyes with a groan and thunked his head back against the wall.