Wah, too long passed since last update…but here it is (finally). Thanks to all of you who reviewed, we'll post responses at the beginning of the next chappie.Enjoy!

CHAPTER EIGHT

Malik stepped into the slightly cluttered house, and Tristan closed the door behind him.

"So…" Tristan began, "would you like something to drink?"

"No, thanks, I'm fine," Malik said cheerfully. "But I do want to ask for a favor."

"Yeah?"

"Can I borrow your motorcycle? I promise I'll be careful with it!"

"Uh…" the request caught Tristan by surprise.

Malik, misunderstanding, continued quickly. "I promise I'll take great care of it! And I'll make sure you get it back by tomorrow-"

"Ok, it's fine," Tristan laughed. "I can't believe that you of all people would do anything to hurt a motorcycle. Lemme get the keys."

---

Ryou looked up from his cooking when he heard a knock at the door. Strange, he thought, Malik isn't supposed to arrive for another few hours, for the dinner Ryou had invited him over for. Wiping his hands on his apron, Ryou went to the door. Malik was standing there, grinning at him.

"You're only…a few hours early," Ryou said.

"No such thing as too early!" Malik said cheerfully, "now come on!"

"Come where?" Ryou protested, "I'm not done cooking!"

"Oh please, knowing you you're trying to cook a ten-course meal! I'm sure there's enough food! Let's go have some fun first!"

Protesting all the way, Ryou was forced to agree.

Ryou followed Malik apprehensively outside to the curb, where he'd left the motorcycle. He'd had taken the time to put on a warm sweater, because it was still cold out, and the breeze along the sea would probably be chilly. Malik had also thrown on a sweatshirt, a black one with a red Chinese dragon splashed across its front.

Malik swung his leg over the seat of the motorcycle, the casual movement betraying his experience with the machine, and invited Ryou to join him. Ryou was even more disturbed by this, not sure where to put his hands in order to hold on. Should he put his arms around Malik? His hormones immediately chorused an enthusiastic 'yes!'

He tried his very best to ignore them.

He finally settled for holding on the edge of the seat behind him. However, this didn't prevent him from being hyperaware of all the places his body was touching Malik's.

"Hang on," Malik said unnecessarily, as he turned on the machine and sped off.

It only took a few minutes to get to the main highway, during which Ryou learned that Malik was a rather dangerous driver. "Malik! Slow down!" he yelled, panicked, over the rush of wind.

Malik only laughed, and yelled back, "Isn't this great?"

After a particularly frightening turn, which left Malik laughing like a madman and Ryou nearly hysterical with terror, Ryou gave up on his principles and wrapped both arms as far as he could around Malik's middle. He hung on for dear life, muttering about speeding maniacs, and felt the vibrations of Malik's laughter through the cloth on his back.

Ryou clung helplessly to Malik, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. After a few minutes, when he'd gotten used to the speed and the wind that howled in his ears as they raced past, he slowly opened his eyes.

He suddenly noticed how close he was pressed against the Egyptian, and his heart began to beat irregularly fast again. Ryou found himself wishing that Malik were wearing one of his belly shirts instead of a thick sweatshirt, so that his hands would be clutching that tanned bare skin, those taut stomach muscles....

Ryou immediately tried to suppress these thoughts, feeling guilty. What would Malik think if he knew Ryou thought about his body that way? Malik would probably be disgusted, and hate him.

After an interminable period of time, they finally pulled to a stop in a nearly deserted parking lot at an equally empty stretch of beach. Ryou got off the motorcycle, feeling slightly giddy, and saw Malik mirroring his feeling with a smile that immediately pushed all thoughts of guilt out of his head.

"Wasn't that great?" Malik said cheerfully.

"Of course," Ryou answered, slightly dryly.

"Come on." Malik grasped his hand and pulled him to the sand, toward the shoreline. "Let's get closer to the water!"

"What's the point?" Ryou asked. "It's freezing anyway. What are we supposed to do here?"

"Don't be so negative! C'mon, I'll race you to that rock!"

"Hey!" Ryou cried, as Malik took off, immediately chasing him. "No fair, you got a head start!"

Malik looked back. He was laughing, and his hair blew wildly in the wind, and the glow of the sun on the horizon surrounded him... it was a beautiful picture that entranced Ryou.

"I'm winning!" Malik called out, recalling Ryou to the race.

With a burst of speed, Ryou caught up and tackled Malik to the ground, jumping clear quickly to try to continue on.

"Oh, no you don't!"

Malik grabbed Ryou's ankle, pulling him down again. They wrestled in the sand for a few minutes, managing to get sand in every available place, but by then, the cold no longer bothered them.

Finally, they both sat up, grinning at each other.

"You've got sand all over you," Malik said, brushing some off Ryou's shoulders.

"Oh, and you're in a much better state!" Ryou snorted, brushing sand out of Malik's hair.

They stood up and shook out their clothes. Malik looked around. "You know, we never did reach the rock."

"Oh no," Ryou said, "we are not racing again, I don't need to get any sandier!"

"Then we'll race in slow motion!"

"Uh...huh?!" Ryou asked, startled.

"Like this!" Malik grinned, and proceeded to pretend to run, moving with exaggerated, slow movements, mimicking a slow-motion scene from a movie. Ryou began to laugh at how silly the Egyptian looked, before trying to copy him. All in all, it took them a while to reach the rock (which was only about five feet away).

Warm after their "exertion", Ryou removed his sweater, tying it around his waist. Beside him, Malik reached for the corners of his sweatshirt, his arms crossed, and pulled it over his head. The tight black shirt he had on underneath rose a few inches, baring his flat stomach, and Ryou closed his eyes, determined not to get caught on that track again.

Malik likewise tied the sweatshirt around his waist, then grabbed Ryou's wrist again, dragging him closer to the water. "Come on, Ryou, let's do some cartwheels!"

"What?" Somehow, with the weird mood Malik seemed to be in, he couldn't follow the Egyptian's thought process at all.

"Come on, Ryou, wake up!" Malik laughed. He nudged Ryou in the direction of the water and took off. Mid-run, his hands touched ground and he did a neat cartwheel in the sand. "See? Go on! Betcha can't do one that good!"

Ryou stood indignantly with his hands on his hips. "Oh yeah? Watch this!" He took a running jump and flipped over, doing a sort of in-the-air cartwheel, without touching the ground.

Malik clapped. "Pretty good, Whitey. Now watch this." He lowered himself backward slowly in a backbend, and then flipped his legs over the top.

"Whitey?" Ryou asked. He did an arrow-straight handstand and then fell into a bridge.

They both collapsed onto the sand, laughing. "Blondie," Ryou gasped at the blonde Egyptian.

They sat in the sand, looking at each other quietly for a moment.

"The sun is setting," Malik finally said, looking away over the water.

"Yeah." Ryou followed his gaze. A quiet, almost solemn mood settled over them as they watched the sun sink slowly over the sea.

Feeling a sudden chill, Ryou pulled his sandy sweater back on. Malik stood up, his hair blowing in the cold wind.

"I guess it's time we started back," he said quietly.

"Yeah." Ryou remembered the dinner he'd made. He pushed snowy hair out of his face. "Let's go."

The ride home was far more subdued than the ride there had been. They both sat quietly, not talking, but the silence between them was comfortable.

When they parked again, Malik followed Ryou into the house. It was dark out now, and starts glittered in the clear sky.

After they had entered the house, Ryou began to heat the food. Malik lounged on the couch until Ryou called "Dinner's ready!" from the kitchen. He went in to help with the carrying.

"Mm, smells wonderful, Ryou." Malik took the handles of the small pot. "What is it?"

"That's spinach casserole." Ryou had crouched down to take the food out of the oven. He straightened up, holding another bowl. "These are potatoes with rosemary seasoning, and there's regular lettuce salad and something special for dessert."

"Sounds great!" Malik carried his bowl out of the kitchen.

They sat down around the table and dug in. Malik heaped his plate with the delicious food, complimenting a blushing Ryou with his mouth full.

Ryou tried to eat, but something was wrong. He noticed how his yami seemed bound and determined that nothing should enter his mouth. He struggled against the feeling – he was hungry for goodness sake! – but his yami kept on taking control of his body and stopping him from eating.

Yami, you did something to the food, didn't you? Ryou demanded, suddenly suspicious.

How'd you guess? Bakura replied sarcastically. Now be a good boy and let me out.

Ryou couldn't believe how angry he was with his yami. Was his yami jealous that he was finally spending time with somebody else for a change?

Oh God… Malik didn't even know about his yami! What would Malik think if his yami took over? Bakura would probably scare off the Egyptian, like he had done to so many others.

Malik looked up at Ryou, who had become strangely silent. He felt the sudden impulse to giggle. "Ryou, why are there two of you?" he wondered.

Ryou was jolted out of his mental battle, and looked at Malik in horror. "He spiked the food!" Ryou gasped, then stood up and hurried out of the room.

Malik stared after the white-headed teenager, slightly puzzled. The room began to fade out, and then suddenly came back sharper than before. Malik rubbed his eyes. "Ryou?" He called shakily.

In the hallway, Ryou leaned against a wall. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead as he struggled to keep his yami at bay. Stay... inside! he gasped.

Since when could you make me? his yami snarled back.

Suddenly, his yami retreated. Surprised, Ryou straightened and turned around. There was Malik in the doorway, a goofy smile on his face. He opened his mouth, and found himself shoved inside his soulroom. The door closed and the lock clicked shut.

Ryou banged helplessly against the door for a few minutes, before giving up. He leaned his back against it and slid down to the floor. He only hoped there would be something left of Malik, body and psyche, when Ryou's yami was finished with him.

Malik hung onto the doorpost as Ryou turned around. Then all of a sudden, it wasn't Ryou any more.

Bakura smiled ferally as he took over his hikari. It was too easy, really. Malik was frowning fuzzily at the change.

"'Lo, Bakura," he managed. He frowned. "You look like...."

Bakura raised an eyebrow. "I look like who?"

"Like Frosty the Snowman!" Malik giggled.

Bakura facefaulted. "I don't even know what Frosty the Snowman looks like!"

Malik kept giggling. "But you sure look like him!" Malik's face suddenly lit up. Before Bakura could react, the blonde ran into the kitchen, and emerged a moment later with a carrot.

"What's that?" Bakura asked.

"A carrot! Snowmen always have carrots!" Malik said cheerfully, trying to stick the carrot up Bakura's nose.

"Ack!" Bakura raised both hands to defend his face, but Malik refused to give up. Finally, he managed to grab both of the Egyptian's wrists and pin them to his sides.

Malik stared at him, a slightly surprised look on his face, before bursting into hysterical giggles once more. Bakura groaned. He let go of the wrists carefully, when he saw that Malik had dropped the carrot.

"I know what you need!" Malik suddenly yelled, and ran off again.

Bakura threw dignity to the winds, and decided to escape while he could. He was beginning to think that getting Malik drunk had been a very bad idea. It had been next on his list of 'ways to seduce' Malik, but it didn't look as if it would work… he couldn't seduce Malik while the Egyptian was acting like a five-year-old!

He had nearly made it to the other door when Malik came tearing back, pounced on him and pinned him to the floor.

"See?" Malik said, grinning proudly while tying a scarf around Bakura's arms, pinning them to his sides so he couldn't move them. "Frosty needs a scarf!"

"I'm not Frosty the Snowman!" Bakura yelled. "Untie me, idi-mmg" he choked on the carrot that Malik had just shoved in his mouth.

He spit it out, and lay staring at the ceiling blankly, begging for any god that might be listening to get him out of the clutches of this loon, while Malik skipped around him in circles singing "We Wish You A Merry Christmas" at the top of his lungs in badly accented English. "I feel like a goddamn maypole…" Bakura muttered dryly.

Around two hours later, when Malik had finally dropped to the floor in exhaustion and just lay there, Bakura sat up. He'd spent the last hour loosening the scarf and managed to slip it off, freeing his arms. He sat for a few seconds, staring at Malik's prone figure. Malik's breathing was deep and even, and every thirty or so seconds he hiccupped in his sleep.

He crawled on his hands and knees over to the Egyptian and turned him over on his back. Malik didn't wake up. Bakura slipped his hands underneath Malik's body and lifted him in the air, then headed in the direction of Ryou's bedroom.

Laying the blonde down on the bed, Bakura considered his options. He didn't want to carry Malik home, that was just going too far... so the only thing left was to let him sleep in Ryou's house for the night. He looked at the Egyptian.

Should he leave Malik in those constricting clothes? He smiled an evil smile and reached for the corners of Malik's shirt.

Malik shifted, and his arm somehow managed to bash Bakura in the nose. "Ouch! Why you..." He stared down at the blonde, but Malik seemed to be fast asleep.

He wrestled with the Egyptian for another few minutes, as time and again Malik managed to land blind blows in tender places. Eventually, the shirt came off. He started working on the fly of Malik's black jeans.

He had to shove Malik's arms above his head and cover them with a heavy blanket to keep from being hit by the dangerously flying arms, but eventually he got the zipper undone. He slid the pants off and tossed them to the floor with the shirt. And grinned. Malik was wearing Winnie the Pooh boxers under those tight jeans – behold, the true Malik!

His finally allowed his eyes to rove over Malik's smooth dark skin, his flat stomach, the chest that rose and fell with his each breath, the sculptured features of his face. His fingers itched with the need to touch that beautiful face, to stroke that toned abdomen and run his fingers through that pale, silky hair...

He reached out a hand. That dark skin was even smoother to the touch than it looked; he ran a finger down his chest, but then snatched his hand away. What the heck was he doing? He couldn't touch Malik when he was like this, out cold after acting like the younger brother Bakura didn't want... It wasn't right. He couldn't carry out his original plan and molest a drunk Malik. He just couldn't bring himself to do it.

That was it. Bakura removed his own shirt but left on the pants. He lay down on the bed facing Malik. It wasn't that he was a good person or anything, he was just... traumatized. How could he forget his earlier experience? Being tied with a fucking scarf and being forced to hear "We wish you a merry Christmas" off-key was enough to traumatize anyone for life. His molestation, or seduction, of the beautiful Egyptian would just have to wait for tomorrow night... right now, he was content with just staring at Malik lying beside him.

He fell asleep with those thoughts in mind, dreaming of sweet kisses beneath snow-filled overcast skies with strange scarf-like clouds that rained carrots.

Malik cracked his eyes open with a groan, closing them almost immediately when the sunlight hit them. "Ooooh...Ra," he groaned, covering his eyes with one hand. His head was killing him.

What had happened to him? He sat up slowly, trying not to jar his head too much, when he suddenly noticed two things: his own slight lack of clothing, and the white-haired form sleeping beside him.

Bakura! He must have spiked the food! Now he understood why it had tasted a bit strange! He leaned over and shoved the thief off the bed. "BAKURA!!!" he snarled, despite the pain in his head, "I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU!"

Bakura woke up as he made an abrupt acquaintance with the floor, trying to orient himself.

A pillow immediately hit him on the head, waking him up completely. He rolled out of the way quickly, in time to avoid the other pillow that Malik had thrown at him. "Malik...what are you-?" he began.

"Don't try to play it innocent!" Malik snarled. "You bastard! I'm going to kill you!" He picked up the desk lamp and threw it at Bakura's head.

Bakura managed to dodge the wild throw, and also the shoes that followed the lamp. "Malik, just calm down!" he yelled, trying to get through to the crazed Egyptian.

Malik didn't seem to hear him, and only chased him into the hall, throwing several hangers, two books, and Ryou's backpack at him.

For the second time in twenty four hours, Bakura decided to give up and flee, swearing to himself and every god he knew that he would NEVER get Malik drunk again.

Bakura ran into the living room, dodging the vacuum cleaner that narrowly missed his head. A moment later, he was wondering how the heck Malik had managed to pick up the sofa.

It hit him, too, and Bakura let out a string of curses as he struggled to get out from where it had pinned him to the floor. However, when Malik emerged from the kitchen with the meat cleaver and unmistakable bloodlust in his eyes, Bakura decided to panic. He shoved the sofa off him with strength he didn't know he had and fled, locking himself in the bathroom. Never again, he swore to himself, as he listened to the scrabbling on the other side of the door.

Finally, there was silence.

Bakura put his ear to the door, to make sure it wasn't a trap, before opening it silently. He tiptoed out, stopping abruptly when he saw Malik.

The Egyptian lay with his face to the floor, mumbling incoherently. Bakura could vaguely make out the words "kill bastard," "head hurts," and "need aspirin."

"I'll get you some aspirin if you promise not to attack me," Bakura said cautiously.

He took Malik's silence to mean consent and hurried away, returning with the aspirin moments later. He put the bottle a few feet away from Malik and quickly stepped back.

Malik raised his head, focusing bloodshot eyes on the pills, and inched forward pathetically on his stomach until he could reach them. "Water," he demanded harshly.

Bakura slid the cup across the floor to him. It sloshed on his head. He picked it up and drank, swallowing the pills, then sat up and glared at Bakura. "I am so going to murder you, as soon as my head feels better."

"I swear I didn't touch you last night!" Bakura backed away under Malik's skeptical glower. "Well, maybe a little. You were violent enough, as it was, I'm not sure I had much of a choice," he said, recalling Malik's blind swings. He grinned at Malik's slightly aghast expression. Yes, let him think he'd been the one to force Bakura!

"Why, you no good..." Malik was tight-lipped with anger. He lunged at Bakura and tripped over one of the books he himself had thrown.

Bakura grabbed at him as he fell and managed to get both his hands behind his back. "You're leaving," he said. He shoved Malik back into the bedroom. "Get dressed and get out."

"You owe me breakfast!" Malik howled at the closed door. "It had better be something chocolaty!"

Bakura sighed as the front door slammed twenty minutes later, after Malik had gone. He stared contemplatively at the mess left in his hikari's house. Plan A had definitely turned out to be a total failure. Oh well... time to move on to Plan B!