Disclaimer: Yugioh is not mine, thank God. It would make even less sense.

He takes the Ring off at the door, hangs it up on the coat rack next to the leather bomber jacket the flat's owner has slung so seemingly carelessly across the spokes. A violet robe hangs with much more precision a bit further down the hallway; he runs his hand over it as he passes, trailing his fingertips across the fine fabric, hips already swaying with a confidence those passing him on the street would never suspect.

Malik's waiting for him in the back room, as always, city skyline illuminated in floor-length windows, lights down low, music already playing. "Nine-twenty, Ryou," he observes without looking over, but he unfurls from his chair in the corner like a jackal rising on the hunt. A jackal: the creatures actually responsible for the devastation, in Arabic mythology, attributed to ghouls. The graverobber. Now he's stolen even from those for whom life and death hold no meaning.

"I had a lot of homework today," Bakura Ryou confesses, still unused to the rush of confidence, the flush in his cheeks being around Malik Ishtar gives him. On the streets, in the school, with his friends - he's on the outskirts, craving inclusion yet trying to be avoided to simplify life. Malik, from the beginning, has never been like that. Malik's attention has always been completely on him. And Malik's made him think about himself in ways he'd never imagined on his own, either.

Marik barks a little laugh: the jackal, derisive. "Still obeying the laws your fathers laid," he teases; Ryou wonders how much of Malik's political philosophy he actually believes and how much he stresses to try and make Ryou feel sheepish. He certainly feels small, and naive, and simple, in Malik's presence. But with Malik's ideas in his head, Malik's criticism inspiring himself, Ryou's been reevaluating plenty.

Certain other talents of Malik's have helped with that, too.

"Well, if I don't have a good academic record I can't get into a good college," Ryou points out as Malik turns up the music, slinks over to Ryou and rests his hands on the boy's hips. This isn't fair, thinks Ryou. Malik himself had confessed to being just as new to this as Ryou was - inspired by all that was off with Ryou to try and liven him up a bit. Why was Malik so good at it?

Malik's grinning at him, though, tongue pinched lightly between his teeth, and Ryou lets the subject drop, relaxes into the music and into Malik's body. Someone's hands are already working Ryou's shirt off. He's mildly surprised to find they're his own, but feels charged, excited by the idea. See, Malik? He can change. He's been thinking. He's been jumping up and down on his bed at home until the neighbors complain, he's been making lists of places to take Malik in the margins of his notebooks during class. His gaming room has spilled into the kitchen, the TV room; his current campaign sprawls across the entirety of the flat, no longer boxed away neatly into its own little space. A place for everything and everything in its place - well, Malik had asked, what about things that don't deserve to be put in place? Life, creativity, should be unbounded, free.

Ryou spins Malik around and around on the floor, whipping his white hair in slow frantic circles until he makes himself dizzy and has to cling to his dance partner for support; Malik chuckles, but through the derision Ryou feels the affection ringing in his ears louder than even the stereo's bass. Too much? he wants to ask, but then Malik's twirling him by the arm and Ryou has to focus on not breaking the hand-hold: even weeks of impromptu dance lessons, even the new spring in his step haven't made him any less clumsy. He manages, and is so pleased by this development he doesn't realize until too late that Malik's stepped forward, pressing his hips into Ryou's, bossily, insistently...

Ryou gulps, swallows, flushes. The bass pounds. Malik's hands toy with the rim of Ryou's jeans, Malik's feet lead Ryou's across the floor, sliding him everywhere Malik wants him to go. Ryou thinks, throat drying, blinking, looking around, at the night sky dotted with artificial skyscraper stars, at the sparse elegance of the flat he's been visiting nightly for what seems like forever yet still gives him such a rush of novelty, at Malik, who seems pleased yet almost complacent. Malik looks almost used to this.

Well.

A cheeky smile lights Ryou's daring cheeks, and crossing the fingers of his free hand for good luck he drives his hips into Malik's hips, too.

An hour later they're lying together between crisp cream-colored sheets, still holding hands, that same smile still aching wonderfully on Ryou's face. Malik has expensive taste; this pillow feels like lying on a cloud - yet Ryou's brain has been lost amid the clouds within itself far more thoroughly. They smell like lavender, exhaust fumes, and incense.

"You remembered, didn't you," Malik murmurs into the boy's ear, his breath tickling soft white hair; Ryou shivers, smiles, toes curling beneath the blankets as he nods. What's Malik feel now? he wonders. Malik's had so many thrilling experiences, run for his life in a rainstorm, flung respect to the wind and asserted his mastery over every new city whose underworld he's conquered. Was there somehow a hole in that life, a hole now filled with tabletop and cotton candy and ouija at three in the morning?

"I told him, Malik," he assures his companion in a breathy voice. This has been going on for over a month now, and yet still the idea of being wanted by someone like Malik leaves him reeling, shocked. "Yuugi'll be at the pier tomorrow."

"Excellent." Malik kisses Ryou's cheek, rubs his own foot across the boy's curled toes; he chuckles as Ryou first retracts, then, growing bolder, rubs right back. "It'll all be over tomorrow, then. Thanks to you. My family's vengeance, after three thousand years."

"And you'll keep your promise to me too, right?" Ryou asks in a tiny voice; he's heard the three thousand years speech three thousand times. Malik responds by reaching a hand under the covers and just brushing, lightly, until Ryou shivers and gasps. "I'll spare the boy," Malik whispers, mouth now touching Ryou's ear, tongue flicking in and out; Ryou lies as still as he can and just hums contentment with his whole body. "And when the Pharaoh's powers are mine, I'll free you from that Ring."

Ryou sighs, happy to have it explicit. Truth be told, he hasn't been honest with Malik - there's no way he can hide something like this from a spirit sharing space in his own head - but it hasn't done anything yet. Ryou's worried. What if something goes wrong tomorrow? What if Malik gets hurt...

But Malik won't get hurt, Malik can do anything, Malik's going to save him. Ryou snuggles up to sleep, head nesting under Malik's chin, secure and comfortable. After tomorrow he won't even have to bother hanging the Ring up at the door. After tomorrow he'll be Malik's and Malik's alone.

Lost in thoughts of his own, Malik strokes Ryou's back until the boy falls asleep. He hasn't been honest with Ryou, either - he's never honest with anybody. This all has been so unnecessary. He could have - should have - just controlled the boy's mind and had done with it. This whole charade - the dancing, the meeting, the...rest - has all just been a whim.

Strange. He follows whims even less often than he tells the truth. What's different here...?

Malik's eyes drift down to the boy sleeping cuddled against him, breath easy and comfortable and trusting and reverent, and he barks another little jackal-laugh at himself. Well. After tomorrow's done he'll be able to help himself to anything he fancies. Anything he lets himself get attached to, anything he doesn't want to let go. After tomorrow there'll be no more sacrifices.

No harm, Malik supposes as he caresses Ryou's back, so unlike his own, smooth and unblemished and perfect and pure, in starting a little early.