This… is a good chapter, if I do say so myself. Applause when you finish reading, please. We worked really hard on it.

tsuki-neko-chan: actually, snakes do blink. Their eyelids are see-through, transparent, clear (pick one) so even when they sleep, it looks as if their eyes are open, when in fact that is not the case. Hence, snakes blink. But thanks for the comment all the same – if we had made a mistake, we'd be glad to have it pointed out to us.

Dark Magician Girl Hikaru: enjoy this next chapter! More cool Bakura in this one, even if it is minus the blood.

Pihorist: you're absolutely right, that would be rather convenient for Bakura. But Bakura's mind runs a different track in this chapter… read and find out!

Aramis-chan: I'll keep my mouth shut and let you find out by yourself. After all, being the author, I can't start giving away the plot now can I?

Now on with the chapter. Enjoy all! Don't forget to leave us encouraging reviews, ok? Both Tramontana K and Seventh D are going through tough times at the moment, and our morale is kinda low.

Now read!

Chapter Fourteen

Malik arched his back gracefully, stretching his arms above his head, exposing his caramel midriff to the dim light. His right fist tightened momentarily around the hilt of a common kitchen knife before he flicked it, almost lazily, in the direction of the life-sized Yami poster on his wall. The poster was already decorated with knives that protruded from various lethal, or at least painful, places. He grinned ferally as the blade thudded, vibrating slightly with the force of the throw, in the Pharoah's left eye. He straightened and crossed his arms against his chest, glancing smugly behind him. "What do you want, Bakura?"

The once-tomb robber unfolded himself from the sill of the third-story window and dropped soundlessly into the room. Annoyed as he was that Malik had so easily detected his presence, he composed his features into a cool, aloof expression, as if he had known that Malik had known he was there all along. He stepped forward and with the same motion threw a knife at Malik's head, only mildly disappointed when the brat shifted to avoid it and plucked the knife from the air. Still grinning, Malik twirled it expertly between his fingers. "Answer my question, dumbass."

"Patience, you lazy bitch." As Malik bristled, he added quite lazily, "What would you call a bastard who plays at home while others do his work for him?"

Malik shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but Bakura could that tell he'd gotten to the young Egyptian. "I wouldn't expect someone of your caliber to understand the level of expertise needed to control as many mind-slaves as I do, simultaneously."

"I hope you watch your diet. So much sitting around might make you fat."

Bakura watched as Malik sauntered over to the poster and pulled out several of the knives from Yami's various parts, eyeing the seductive sway of Malik's hips. It was a shame that someone so intractable came in such a pretty package. Malik snorted, returning Bakura's attention to the conversation (or lack thereof). "You're just jealous, uke-boy."

Bakura bit back an answering growl. Instead, he said coldly, "I'll overlook your immaturity for now. But anytime you wish to terminate our little agreement, I'll be happy to kill you."

"Assuming you could," Malik answered, fingering one dangerously sharp knife.

At a temporary impasse, they studied each other silently for a moment. The Egyptian brat was way too arrogant for his good, Bakura thought as he calculated his chances of catching Malik off guard and killing him right there and then. He trusted Malik less than the distance he could throw him with one hand, and he wondered if this agreement was worth all the trouble it caused him. Preferring to work alone, Bakura was not used to dealing with young egotistical upstarts who treated him as an equal, or worse, a subordinate. He'd store this grievance away with the others that had accumulated during their brief acquaintance, waiting patiently for the right time to exact his revenge. Once the Millenium Rod was safely in his possession, Malik would learn the meaning of true subservience. He almost grinned at the mental image…

…which did not fit the current situation at all. Bakura watched from his soulroom as Ryou helped Malik finish packing the last of his meager belongings into a duffel bag. The Malik he remembered and the current flesh-and-blood Malik overlapped only marginally. Although those memories had been fondly recalled, he realized suddenly that they were not happy memories. His interaction with Malik had been violent, demanding, even cruel. Malik had calmed down a lot since then, become almost normal, if a little insecure (well, ok, fine. More than a little) but he was much preferable to the Malik he had been. It was then that Bakura realized that Malik wasn't the only one to have changed 180º; he seemed to have mellowed out quite a bit himself. With a start, he noticed that it didn't seem to bother him as much as it should. Wasn't he supposed to be a spiteful, sadistic S.O.B? But he couldn't recall being as happy then as he was now. There was something to be said for being nic- nope, better not go there. He didn't want to scare himself, or turn into a putrid Yami-like thing.

He recalled himself to the present and watched through Ryou as Malik leaned over the top of the stuffed duffel bag to peck Ryou on the cheek. "Thanks," the Egyptian said with a smile. He stood up, dusted his hands off on his pants and looked around. "Let's go. I'll be glad to see the last of this hellhole. Pardon my French."

Ryou blushed, but rolled his eyes. "I'm not that innocent, Malik."

Bakura seethed.

There seemed to be no trace of Malik's earlier panic attack. At least that was in his favor. But it irked, shredded, tore, bit at him… um. That was overdoing it. Annoyed him that he was the one who made Malik miserable while Ryou made the blonde act… well, blonde. Or maybe that wasn't actually a good thing, when he thought about it. Malik was dumb enough already; he definitely didn't need any further encouragement.

He was so totally deluding himself. Malik wasn't like that at all. So why the heck would he do that? Could it be that he might possibly lll…lo… lov….

He turned away from that thought as warning bells, sirens, klaxons and foghorns began to go off loudly in the empty recesses of his brain.

Fuck.

Malik was a bit less worried about being attacked on the way back to Ryou's house, considering that he now had a very large duffel with which to defend himself. Ryou did not seem to share his tranquility. But that, Malik mused, was because he'd probably never been hit in the head with a very large duffel. As they walked, he noticed Ryou stayed far away from any and all shadows. That was a rather difficult feat, since it was nighttime and therefore involved lots of weaving about and crossing streets back and forth, but Ryou refused to be dissuaded from his undertaking.

"Ryooouuuu," he whined at the 50th time Ryou jumped onto him when a leaf blew into his path. "Will you cool it? I promise I won't let the evil leaves hurt you, ok?"

Ryou pouted angrily. "Quit laughing at me."

"Who's laughing? I thought I was doing an excellent job of keeping a straight face."

Malik winked at Ryou, who glowered. He snatched the duffel from Malik and swung it over Malik's head, then blinked at the spectacular result. Think Malik-faced pancake.

"Ooooh… so this is why you weren't worried about being attacked!" he told the pancake. "I feel so much better now!" And he proceeded to skip all the way back to his house, whistling cheerfully, while Malik trailed behind him in utter, pained, misery.

At Ryou's house, they each had a glass of hot chocolate before lugging Malik's duffel into Ryou's room to unpack the few necessities he'd need for the night. Ryou emerged from the bathroom wearing his light blue and pink bunny print two-piece pajamas, only to pause before his occupied bed.

"Uh, Malik," he began tentatively. The Egyptian looked up at him curiously, wondering if sleeping in the same bed bothered Ryou.

"Ryou?"

"Could you please try not to occupy the entire bed? It's not that big, and I need to sleep too."

"I'll do my best." Malik obligingly rolled over from his previous sprawled position. He had taken off his lavender shirt because of the heat, and the black sleeveless he wore underneath. His canvas-material pants were black too, but those he left on. Black looked good on Malik, Ryou noted.

Several minutes of shifting, rolling and shoving later they finally found a comfortable position on the not-terribly-wide bed. Ryou tried to control his blushing and pounding heartbeat (and wild imagination) at the proximity, at least enough to fall asleep.

Malik, Ryou quickly discovered, was a very restless sleeper. Ryou was prodded, nudged, and even kicked a few times, until he fell off the bed around 4AM. He sat up groggily, only to see Malik sprawled once again across the whole bed, snoring peacefully like a herd of hippopotami. Ryou jerked the pillow out from under Malik's head, and slept the few hours left to the night on the hard, cold, unforgiving floor. Ooohhh, Malik was going to pay for that later.

The next morning found Bakura leaning against the small porch railing, the wind blowing dramatically through his pearly loc – hair. Malik stepped quietly up behind him, then suddenly yelled "BAH!"

Poor Bakura leapt in surprise, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. "Malik!" he admonished when the blonde began to roll on the floor in paroxysms of glee.

"Haha! That was ten feet, Kura! You should've seen the look on your face!"

Bakura scowled. "I did NOT jump ten feet. Maybe three," he admitted grudgingly.

"Five!"

"Three and a half."

"Four."

"…Fine," he finally conceded, and huffily went back to contemplating the boring and disgustingly peaceful scenery. He rested his chin in his hands, his back to Malik. The blonde had picked himself up from his undignified floor antics and leaned on his elbows beside Bakura. "What's up?"

"The sky?"

Malik frowned. "No, really."

"The birds and the sky?"

Malik waited patiently.

Bakura knew he'd won this round. "Nothing much."

"Fine, don't talk to me. See if I care."

Bakura sighed. "That's just what I don't want to do with you. Don't you get it? Supposedly you're my boyfriend, but you sure as hell don't act it."

"I don't?" Malik was immediately defensive.

"What do you mean?"

"Why is it always my fault? Is it because the great arrogant Tombrobber can do no wrong?"

"Well, what the hell do you want me to do? You wont let me get close to you! When Ryou needs you you're all over him, but with me you just freak and push me away!"

"And when exactly have you ever needed me!"

"Now," Bakura said simply. With that, he leaned forward and kissed Malik. Not for the first time, Malik lost himself completely in Bakura's kiss, in the worlds that collided and seeped from Bakura into him and from him into Bakura. This time the kiss was accompanied by an unfamiliar, painfully sweet tightening in his chest.

They broke for air and Malik, his head tilted to the side, wore an adorably dreamy expression on his face. "Never mind," he said breathily. He bent forward to lean his head in the crook of Bakura's neck, but straightened with a rueful expression. "You're a bit short for that."

Bakura turned red. "Not my fault that you're the uke!"

Malik grinned dangerously down at him. "You're going to rue that remark later, when you're too sore to sit down."

"We'll see," Bakura replied, ruffling Malik's hair on his way inside.

Malik stuck out his foot, neatly tripping Bakura, then pranced just out of reach. "Don't be late for breakfast!" he called.

On the floor, Bakura watched Malik's receding back, his desire rekindled to twice its former strength. He picked himself up and headed, whistling, for the kitchen, wishing most uncharacteristically that the brief moment of euphoria he'd experienced could last forever.

Said moment was ruined by the bird that decided to leave a dropping in his previously immaculate hair.

Breakfast was extremely eventful, and many strange things happened, but as they are unrelated to our story we'll ignore that and pretend nothing happened.

"Bakura," Malik said, when he showed no sign of letting Ryou take control. "You should let Ryou take over, we need to go to school, and I don't want to be late!"

Surprise flitted across Bakura's face. "What, you don't think I can deal with your stupid school for one day?"

Malik didn't look up as he cleared the table. "It's not that I don't think you could handle it, it's just that you might cause Ryou to… miss stuff, and you know how important doing well is to him."

Bakura narrowed his eyes. "That sounds like an excuse for favoritism."

Malik was busy washing the dishes. "Don't be silly."

Without a word, Bakura disappeared.

"Morning, Malik," Ryou said, nudging the Egyptian away from the sink. "Come on, we should get going, leave the dishes."

"Sure." Distractedly, Malik slung the towel he'd been using to dry his breakfast bowl on his shoulder, caught himself, and laughed. "Whoa, ok, that was weird. I'll go get my backpack." He hurried out of the kitchen.

Ryou stared after him, bemused.

Bakura wondered if Malik wasn't suddenly happier, now that Ryou had appeared. He growled loud enough to attract Ryou's attention.

Bakura?

Shut up and leave me alone! Bakura snarled at him.

Whoa, thought Ryou. Who got his goat?

There was a muffled explosion inside the soulroom that Ryou tactfully ignored.

School that day was also incredibly eventful and many important things happened, but none of them are related to this story, much like breakfast. So we shall pretend it was a normal, boring school day, and that nothing involving orange and purple striped Martians and chewing gum happened at all.

Bakura sulked all day in his soulroom, cooking up plan after plan on how to get Malik into the bathroom to snog, but somehow Malik managed to evade him every time. The only alone time he managed to spend with Malik was on their way home, watching from Ryou's eyes as Malik chattered and laughed the entire way. Bakura resolved to change that just as soon as they were out of public view.

When they were home, Bakura set his (latest) plan (of the day) into action (#47). While Malik finished the last of his trigonometry assignment, he cut a thick slice of chocolate cake and smothered it with vanilla icing. He placed a strawberry on the swirl and set it before Malik with a proud smile. Malik looked from the chocolate cake to Bakura suspiciously, before commenting, "Can I have a fork too?"

Bakura huffed. "I go to all this trouble, and he wants a fork! A fork!"

"Well excuuuuse me," Malik rolled his eyes. He swiped a finger through the icing and brought it to his mouth. "Or is this what you wanted?" he asked, inserting the finger into his mouth and sucking on it. He waited for the telltale drool to start dripping, but to his surprise, Bakura just sat down across from him, calmly resting his chin in his hands. Malik was therefore obliged to continue his sensual little show.

Bakura smirked as he watched Malik slide the finger slowly in and out of his mouth. Oh, Malik was a sexy bitch all right, but he wasn't going to let the kid know how turned on he was. Let Malik turn himself on first, then he'd be more receptive to the attentions Bakura intended to lavish on him.

Malik closed his eyes and tipped his head back, savoring the much-loved taste of chocolate. He was very much aware of Bakura sitting across from him, watching, but he ignored the unblinking gaze. Or tried to. He felt himself responding, the hairs on his arms and neck rising and the places where the soft material of his shirt brushed against skin were suddenly over-sensitized. His head fell back further; he wasn't surprised when fingers brushed lightly over his throat, traced his prominent collarbone. "Open your mouth," Bakura's husky voice ordered him and he obeyed without thinking. Bakura slipped a chocolaty finger inside Malik's mouth; Malik's cheeks hollowed as he sucked the finger clean, swirling his tongue provocatively around it. He couldn't resist savoring the chocolaty taste; it literally intoxicated him. He opened glazed eyes and stared into Bakura's hot, branding gaze, realizing that for the first time since he'd met Bakura, he was able to return the feelings of desire that Bakura seemed to have felt toward him since the beginning. His sudden surge of desire was reflected in Bakura's eyes. The once-tomb robber leaned forward across the table to touch his tongue to the corner of Malik's mouth, to nibble his way along Malik's jaw to his ear, to tug it gently between his teeth. Malik drew in his breath with a hiss, almost flinching back.

"I… I don't think I'm ready for this," he whispered.

"We can go as slowly as you want," Bakura told him. "You set the pace." He brushed some of Malik's flaxen hair off his face tenderly. "I love your hair," he murmured.

It didn't occur to Malik to notice the strange gentleness in Bakura's behavior; he was too caught up in his desire, and his hesitance to act upon it.

Suddenly hot and uncomfortable, Malik shifted in his seat. He pushed the mostly-uneaten (though thoroughly mutilated) piece of cake away and stood up. With a glance over his shoulder intended to be neither coy nor bold that succeeded in being both, he proceeded to Ryou's bedroom. Bakura followed warily behind him, daring to hope.

Malik pulled Bakura into the room and closed the door. "If I'm going to do this, might as well do it right," he muttered before pushing a surprised but pleased Bakura up against the door and kissing him fiercely. Congratulating himself on whatever combination of luck and tactics had gotten him to this point, Bakura kissed Malik back. His hands tangled in Malik's hair, Malik's beautiful silky hair, and he finally let passion overrun him.

After a few minutes of intense snogging later, Malik grinned at Bakura. "You kiss better than anyone I've ever kissed before." Suddenly, he grew graver. "Um, Bakura… is this okay? I mean, what about Ryou…?"

Bakura bit his lip to stop from saying 'fuck Ryou'. After all, Malik might take that the wrong way, given the current circumstance. "He won't know a thing," he promised, nudging the slim Egyptian toward the bed. "I've been blocking him out since I offered you the cake."

"In that case." Malik grabbed Bakura's wrists and shoved him onto the bed, trapping the tomb robber beneath himself. Bakura blinked up at him in surprise, his slow, seductive smile spreading over his face. "This your first time on top?" he purred.

Keeping a firm hold on Bakura's wrists, Malik kneed the tomb robber's legs apart. "I still remember our conversation this morning," he replied in equally sultry tones. "I'll do my absolute best to make it true."

And so he did. Much to Bakura's chagrin, Malik proved very capable of being seme. In fact, he proved it twice. By their third time Malik was sufficiently tired out and Bakura secured himself an above position. After that, they sort of lost count, and by then it didn't matter… they were in each other's arms, the night was young and so were they (if one didn't count the few thousand years of being sealed in a magic ring as age), blahbitty blah blah.

That was all in case you were really interested. To tell more would be invading upon the lovers' privacy, and we'd have had to ask them first… I'm sure you'll understand why we bailed out of that one.

Six thirty the next morning found Bakura, hair sticky with sweat, lying with Malik nestled in his arms. He rested his chin in Malik's messy mop of hair, willing his breathing to slow down. Malik shifted slightly. "Morning," he muttered.

Bakura turned Malik's head to kiss his nose. "Good morning."

Malik smiled sleepily at him. He sat up, wincing as his movement pulled at scratch marks on his back. "'Kura, did you have to be so violent? I'll be sporting some nasty bruises for a while!"

"You're one to talk," Bakura muttered. "I had to endure some much nastier bruising than you did."

"Hey, you enjoyed every bit of it!"

"Even this," Bakura fingered one of the bite marks on his neck. "Though you bit a little too hard right there in the 'throes of passion'."

"Sorry." Malik, not looking sorry at all, pulled himself out of bed with a groan. "We'd better start getting ready, we aught to have this place straightened before Ryou wakes up."

"Who cares? We didn't do anything wrong."

Malik frowned. "But… it is his body, you know. He's not going to be too happy when he finds out." He felt rather guilty about everything that had… transpired… between him and Bakura last night. "Maybe we shouldn't have… or at least asked him first…."

"What, so now you need his permission? Are you going to ask him the next time you wipe your ass too?"

"Hey." Malik straightened, his shirt halfway on, the tight material scrunched just below his arms. "Don't be mean. It is Ryou's body, and he certainly can tell us what to do or not do with it."

"Do you regret last night?" Bakura asked fiercely, still lying on his side on the bed.

Malik looked uncomfortable. "No. But…."

"But what?"

"But Ryou's also my boyfriend, and I want him to be happy!"

"So you don't care if I'm happy?"

"No!" Malik hit the bed with his palm in frustration. "That's not what I said! Stop twisting everything I say!" He turned his back on Bakura to pull on a new pair of jeans. Bakura just sat and watched him, resentment and anger and hurt growing within him. It was always about Ryou, wasn't it. It didn't matter what he did or how he did it, Ryou always mattered more to Malik than he did. They were more compatible with each other, and it made perfect sense – hikari with hikari. There was no room for the crazy yami anywhere in there. Hikari/yami meant balance, but in a relationship… well, obviously it wasn't about balance, it was about happiness. Why had he even bothered trying? Well, let them have each other. Malik made it clear all the time that he was happier with Ryou; it was certain that Ryou didn't make him nearly as unhappy as Bakura did.

In that moment, Bakura made his decision. It was an incredibly stupid decision, probably the worst decision he could have made under the circumstances (or in his life at all). It was the kind of decision that any rational person could have warned him against, that any fangirl could have told him would make events turn out badly. Sadly enough, there were no fangirls around to warn him, and so there was no one to stop poor Bakura from choosing this idiotic course of action, although he probably wouldn't have listened even if they had been there to warn him.

He stood up languorously, still naked, and moved in front of Malik, the notorious, cold smile in place. Malik noticed it immediately and his heart skipped a beat. Something was definitely wrong; he could feel it. Bakura never smiled like that unless something was very right for him, but it boded extreme danger for anyone else. "Bakura?" he asked, almost tentatively.

"Thanks, Malik."

"Huh?"

"You were the best fuck I've had in a while. I enjoyed it, really. Maybe we can do it again, the next time I get horny."

"Bakura, what are you talking about?"

The white-haired devil stepped closer and rested his hand mockingly on Malik's cheek. "It's simple, really. I'd made a sort of bet with myself, you see, on how long it would take me to get you in bed. I've been wondering how that tight ass of yours would feel. And it was great, really it was, but that's all there was. Now that I've had you, well, it's over."

Malik was very white, an impressive feat for someone with his complexion. "What?"

"I'd have you again anytime, but didn't you hear me? I said it's over."

Malik stared at him as if he were having trouble understanding the words that Bakura was shooting, like knives, at his person. "…You mean you… you never felt anything… for me?"

Bakura was already finding it hard to stand firm against the horrified expression on Malik's face, and fought against the powerful urge to throw himself into Malik's arms and beg his forgiveness, tell him it was all a lie. Instead he slapped Malik's cheek lightly and smiled callously. "Smart boy. Did you actually think I might love you? Was my acting that good?"

Slap! Crack! Bakura's head snapped to the side and back again as Malik slapped and then backhanded him.

"You…you…!" Malik couldn't come up with anything foul enough to call Bakura.

"What? Bloody bastard? Fucking asshole son-of-a-bitch? But nothing tops you, Malik. You're nothing more than a third-class whore."

Malik jerked away from him as if he'd been hit. What Bakura saw in his eyes at that moment went beyond anger, almost beyond hurt. Malik turned away, his movements wooden and jerky, and left. Bakura stared after him with the sinking certainty that he had definitely succeeded. Malik hated him now, and would live happily ever after with Ryou. Malik would never look at him again except with utter loathing. The distant slam of a door was the final blow that signaled the very end. That was it, it was over. His brief happiness in Malik's arms was no more.

He noticed with a sort of detached calmness that Malik had left his sneakers on the floor near Ryou's dresser. Outside the bedroom window, a bird twittered soft greetings to the day. The everyday hustle and bustle of Domino City was about to begin.

Bakura sat down on Ryou's bed, and cried.

Malik slammed the bathroom door behind him. Once more, he was nothing. How had he messed up so badly, again? He must truly be worth nothing, if people could keep doing this to him. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror, and stared at it, entranced. He was so pretty on the outside, so deceptively pretty. That was what attracted people. They didn't know, or care to know anything about the person who existed within that pretty exterior. He should… he should be less pretty, Malik reflected, touching the tempting golden locks that Bakura had so recently run his fingers through. At least much of his attraction was real.

His pretty, dirty body.

The light reflecting off a pair of scissors caught his eye, and he picked them up thoughtfully. He should stop deceiving people with his looks. Maybe if he were less pretty, people would see him for who he truly was. Better if they decided he wasn't worth knowing than deceiving him into thinking they actually cared about him when they didn't. He raised the scissors toward his face, and smiled sadly at his reflection, before he began to cut.

Somehow, he would have thought it would hurt more.