SeventhDaughter: Hey, thanks guys, to all of you who read this story, and especially to those of you who review it.
Tramontana Keeper: Yup! keep up the good work, or we won't update...
And let's have a big round of applause for our beta, Nehti!
SeventhDaughter: now, on with the story...

CHAPTER THREE

Malik turned around suddenly, and smacked right into the person standing behind him. He grabbed the other person's shoulders, trying to steady them both, but only succeeded in overbalancing them and sending them headfirst into the fishpond that had appeared next to them. They fell in with a loud splash, drawing puzzled looks from bystanders. Malik tried to get off the other person, but their legs had gotten tangled up. Abruptly, he was shoved violently off as the other person sat up, spluttering.

"How-" hacksplutterchoke "-how did this fucking pond get here in the first place?" Bakura snarled, glaring at the passersby angrily. He ignored the fact that their pond was obscuring traffic because of its location in the middle of the asphalt road. He turned to Malik. "Oh, so you're the idiot who knocked us in here. I should have known."

The Egyptian pushed dripping hair out of his eyes, looking annoyed. "I did it on purpose, just to annoy you. I'm glad to see it worked." They glared at each other, still sitting in the scummy water. A muted croak broke the silence. Bakura reached up and pulled a frog out of his hair, staring at it with disgust. Malik started laughing at the look on his face, but stopped abruptly when Bakura threw the frog at him.

"Hey, stop that!" he protested as it hopped frantically through the strands of his wet hair, trying to get it off him. The poor frog finally managed to escape, traumatized for life, and decided to go take a long vacation in Madagascar, away from all these overly excitable teenagers.

"Oh, quit making an idiot of yourself," Bakura said, pulling Malik up and dragging him out of the pond.

"Me," Malik muttered, finally giving up on getting the green stuff out of his hair. "You look like a bog monster, by the way." He was rather pleased when he saw Bakura close his mouth, peeved, apparently having been about to say the exact same thing. "I was just on my way to your house to see Ryou, but I guess he's not in residence at the moment."

"Oh, so now that I'm in control you'll avoid us like the plague, is that it?"

Malik didn't quite know what to say to that, so Bakura began to drag him down the street in the direction of Ryou's house. Behind them, the innocent passersby wondered what they were going to do with the fishpond stuck in the middle of the street.

At Ryou's house, Bakura led Malik to the bathroom, pushing him in. "Hey, what are you doing?" Malik protested as Bakura started pulling at his shirt.

"You were standing like a deer in the headlights, dripping dirty water on the nice clean floor. We're going to take a shower."

"We?" Malik yelped.

"It'll take less time," Bakura said pragmatically, pretending he had no ulterior motives whatsoever. Malik shot him a deeply distrustful glare and shoved him out the door.

"Wait 'till I'm done, idiot," he said, and slammed and locked the door.

"Idiot yourself," Bakura called back. "Where are you going to get clean clothes if the door is locked?"

"Leave 'em outside the door, like normal people do," Malik yelled.

Two minutes after handing Malik the clothes through a (very small) crack in the door, Bakura began to bang on it. "Well!" he yelled. "Did you drown yourself or something? How long does it take to shower?"

"Shut up! It's been barely two minutes!"

"Well hurry up, already. With all the time you spend on showering, are you sure you're not really a girl or something?"

"I'm not even going to answer that."

"You just did."

Finally, Malik pulled the door open violently, wearing only a pair of close-fitting jeans and still rubbing at his hair.

"Took you long enough," Bakura commented, running appreciative eyes over Malik's bare chest. Malik threw his towel at Bakura's head.

"Keep your eyes to yourself, pervert. Now get in, or wasn't that what you were bugging me about nonstop for the past ten minutes?"

Bakura sauntered into the shower, pleased at having ribbed Malik so thoroughly. When he was done with his shower (which took less than five minutes, miraculously), he went to look for Malik. He found him in the kitchen, sitting on the counter and eating a bar of chocolate.

"Why do you eat chocolate all the time?"

"I don't."

Bakura sauntered over, putting his elbows on Malik's knees. Malik fidgeted, abruptly finding the position very uncomfortable. He kicked out, making Bakura dodge elegantly out of the way.

"Really, Malik," he chided, "when did you get so hostile? I thought we were friends."

"We're not," Malik said flatly, jumping off the counter. "In case you hadn't noticed, Battle City is over. I'm not who I was then anymore. Thanks for the clothes." He turned to leave, but Bakura blocked the door, staring intently at the Egyptian.

"You aren't nearly as changed as you'd like certain people to think, are you?"

"You don't know what you're talking about."

Bakura smiled widely. "Why are you so sure?" At Malik's unyielding expression he laughed slightly, trailing one finger down Malik's cheek. "Aww, how cute. He's in denial." Malik slapped Bakura's hand away, and shoved past him. He left the house without bothering to shut the door behind him.

Bakura followed him and stood in the doorway, watching Malik walk away. He shut the door with ambivalent feelings only when the blonde was out of sight. There were few things he enjoyed more than getting on Malik's nerves. Still, he felt rather annoyed at himself, because he hadn't wanted to get Malik so angry. He flopped down on the sofa in the living room, sighing. No, today's confrontation hadn't gone very well.

Malik walked with his hands deep in the jeans pockets, his head hanging. The proverbial black thundercloud of uncharacteristic solemnity hung over him. He heard, over and over again, Bakura's taunting words.

"You aren't nearly as changed as you'd like certain people to think."

Why had Bakura's statement bothered him so much? He shook his head. He knew why; he himself had used the same tactic on other people too often. It was easy to make a person believe that something they feared was true, especially if you knew exactly how to say it. It disturbed him that the tactic was working so well on him. Even though he knew what Bakura was doing, he still couldn't help wondering if Bakura could see something he didn't, if he really hadn't changed. Even worse – what was Bakura planning? What was he trying to gain by playing psychological table-hockey with Malik's feelings?

Malik's hand unconsciously brushed the spot where Bakura had stroked his cheek. The gesture was just a part of the game; he knew that, so why was it bothering him so much? Why did he keep feeling the phantom touch? Why was he so sure that there was so much more behind that touch than Bakura had let on?

He and Joey worked on the project that weekend and the beginning of the next week, during school and in Malik's bedroom. After the one time Joey had come to his house, Malik no longer worried about Joey knowing his true financial situation. Joey in turn felt more comfortable with Malik than he ever had before, and soon concluded that he actually liked the blonde maniac, although he never forgot the way Malik had looked with the blood dripping from his mouth and the satanic look in his eyes the night they had fought the gang.

On Joey's fourth trip to Malik's house they finished the Geography project, both perched on the threadbare mattress that served as Malik's bed. Leaning against the wall, Malik held the laptop on his lap while Joey leaned on the wall next to him and looked over his shoulder to comment and correct. Finally, the last line was typed, the document was saved. Malik leaned forward and put the laptop on the bed in front of him, before stretching his arms and arching his back. Joey leaned forward as well. Malik turned a happy grin towards Joey.

"We're done!" he exclaimed, before throwing his arms around the other blonde and giving him an enthusiastic hug. Joey stiffened in surprise, not knowing what the gesture was supposed to mean. Malik didn't seem to notice his reluctance, but let go to get them both a ceremonial drink of ginger ale. Joey stayed frozen in place, his mind still spinning. It wasn't every day that a friend spontaneously jumped on him and hugged him. Malik returned with the ginger ale, and handed Joey a can.

"Joey, is something wrong?"

Joey scrutinized Malik's expression, but could see nothing out of the ordinary. He shook his head, accepting the drink.

"Hey Malik," Joey began, slumped against the wall once again, "remember the 'night that never happened', when that gang leader asked if I was your boyfriend? Why did he ask that?"

Malik pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them. "Probably just to annoy me. It's the kind of thing that would get most guys angry, isn't it? Besides, I don't get many visitors." He looked up. "Why are you letting what that imbecile said bother you, anyway?"

"It doesn't bother me," Joey lied. "I was just wondering." Malik shrugged, and then yawned. "Hey Joey, are you going to move in the near future?"

"What? Not that I know of, but-"

"Good," Malik said, "'cause I'm tired." He leaned over, put his head on Joey's stomach, and closed his eyes. "Wake me up when you want to go home."

Joey stared down at Malik's head, not daring to move. Within moments, Malik's breathing slowed down and evened out, as if he were fast asleep. Joey couldn't help but think he looked so peaceful, so serene that way. He put down his ginger ale and reached over, gently shifting a lock of pale blonde hair from Malik's forehead. Then he snatched his hand away as if he'd burned it, disbelief showing on his face. What the heck had he just done!

Malik met Tristan unexpectedly the next day after school. He was bending over the seat of a motorcycle when Tristan walked into the repair shop. He was filthy, with black grease smudges all over him, his toolkit open on the floor beside him. His back ached from his unhealthy position on the floor and torrents of sweat dripped into his eyes, yet he felt at peace as he never felt anywhere else. He no longer had his motorcycle, and this was the only consolation he had been able to come up with to compensate for the loss.

Tristan wheeled in his motorcycle, a shiny black and red beauty. He leaned it against the far wall and came to stand on the other side of the motorcycle Malik was tucked beside. "The transmission in my motorcycle is off again," he said. Malik stood up from behind the Suzuki and saw his schoolmate. "Tristan!"

"Malik? What are you doing here?" Tristan looked as surprised to see Malik as the Egyptian was to see him.

"Well, I… I help out here sometimes, after school," Malik blurted, mentally kicking himself in the stomach several times.

"You work here, don't you?" Tristan accused. "You know that after-school jobs aren't allowed in Domino High."

"Yeah, I know," Malik said, wiping his hands on a dirty rag and dropping it on the floor.

"Why are you doing it? I mean, it's not like you're exactly lacking-"

"Tristan," Malik interrupted quietly, "if I don't work, then the rent and other bills won't get paid and I'll be living on the streets. Not to mention I'll have trouble buying basic necessities like food." He didn't know why he was being so open suddenly. He just didn't want to ruin his good mood by getting into an argument, and this was the only way that Tristan would understand.

"You're kidding me," Tristan said flatly. "You? What about your sister?"

"She's in Egypt. She doesn't know I'm here." He hadn't talked to her in ages, for that matter, but that was nobody's business. "Rishid doesn't know either."

"You mean you're here all alone?" To say that Tristan was surprised was the understatement of the century. He could hardly think of what it must be like to be living completely alone in a foreign country, with no family and having to earn his own money, and still manage to be such a good student and not let anyone know about his situation.

Malik looked uncomfortable. He changed the subject to avoid having to elaborate any more on the conditions of his life. "So," he said, "you said you have a problem with your transmission?"