Yu-Gi-Oh! Fan Fiction ❯ Do What You Have To Do ❯ Chapter 1

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Do What You Have to Do
by Edmondia Dantes

Disclaimer: I laugh heartily at the very idea that one such as I could own the magnificence (and money-making ability) of Yugioh. Then I break down in tears and plead my case to the heavens. Which promptly dump snow on my head.

Warnings: Potty mouths, mention of guys making out with other guys (eventually), randomness, flying frying pans, and the occasional threats of imminent cessations of existance.

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-Chapter One-

A dinner party.

A lovely, gracious, polite dinner party.

I hate dinner parties. ...and I'm beginning to think my yami's antisocial tendencies are rubbing off on me.

But I hate them!

And it isn't as though we're throwing a huge fête where I can just blend in with the crowd, or run off and hide in the bathroom, or let my yami take over and begin to (ahem) thin out the crowd, as it were.

No. It's just one family.

One really bloody annoying family.

The Miyakis. A nice, gracious, upstanding family, who have been so kind as to financially aid my father's Egyptian digs in the past. He, of course, wishes such beneficience to continue, and has ever-so-graciously invited them over to dinner. In our house.

In our house.

The same house that has been the scene of a million and a half bizarre occurances. We had to wipe father's memory of the Change of Heart incident... yes, our polite company would be seated in the very same chairs a pharaoh once chucked at a tomb robber, they would dine on the same china that was once used as a frisbee, they would smile up at the chandelier off of which a lunatic had once tried to bungee jump. The same house in which at least three major duels have been fought, the same house in which the Dark Magician once tap-danced with Seto Kaiba, the same house in which every door has been used at least twice for target practice. There's still an elaborately jeweled dagger stuck behind the couch. Yami and I moved it to cover up the evidence.

They will be in my house.

Eating dinner.

My father cannot cook. I can - er... sort of. Macaroni and cheese is good... and frozen waffles, I can make those...

Guess what that means? You've got it! Caterers are going to tromp through and settle down in our kitchen.

I bid them good luck in finding our knives. Yami nicked every last one of them. I also bid them good luck in finding our frying pan. I nicked that - it's the most useful weapon for dealing with an unruly yami. I sleep with it under my bed. (Yes, in my soul room too, whenever yami can't sleep and starts singing bad American pop music. I would like to point out that the only languages my yami knows are Ancient Egyptian and Japanese. I would also like to point out that my yami cannot sing. Add these factors together and multiply by insomnia. Trust me, frying pans are invaluable things.)

At any rate, these... people... are coming over to my house. The overly done-up mother, the severely (as in worse than me) introverted daughter, and the overly-jocular father.

My house. Inhabited by myself, my father, and my psychotic yami.

...I think I'm going to cry.

* * *

It's the day of doom. This morning, I tried smothering myself with my pillow. Yami stole it, damn him. He muttered something about not wanting to commit double-suicide with me. Apparently if I die, so does he. Good. I will not be alone this evening, when I will undoubtedly try to kill myself again. You hear that, yami? I'm taking you down with me!

All through the school day, my friends kept giving me sympathetic looks.

Yes, I poured out my tale of woe to them, too.

Two hours until... it.

And the caterers are here.

Their first question? What else but, "Hey, where are the knives?"

Bewilderment ensued as father raided all the cupboards. I was unwillingly dragged into helping, and forced myself to ignore my yami's snickering the whole time.

Eventually, they sent out one of their number to raid the nearby grocery store. Do they even sell knives at grocery stores? He has yet to return, so I'm betting that the answer is no.

Father is shooing me upstairs. "Ryou, make sure you brush your hair!"

Am now even more pissed at father. There is nothing wrong with my hair! Yami's is worse!

//What the fuck's wrong with my hair?!//

Sigh. /Nothing, yami./ He just wrinkles his nose and slams the door to his soul room. Yeah, I don't want to talk to you either.

Brush. Demon. Sitting there so innocuously on the countertop. I'm not falling for it. The last time I brushed my hair out straight, I got hit on by seven guys. Never again. Never. ...dammit, why am I pretty?

/Shut up, Yami,/ I hiss angrily in response to the laughter that's tickling at the back of my mind. Guess he left the door a little bit open, doubtless to derive great enjoyment from my suffering. Sadistic bastard.

I pick up the cursed object and try an experimental stroke. Instant agony. "ARGH!"

Now he's snickering. /Damn you,/ I snarl grumpily, attacking a tangle viciously. /Damn you straight to hell./

Yami raises a mental eyebrow. //You're swearing, aibou?//

I glare at my reflection, which has somehow gotten a bit more slanty-eyed than me. "Yes," I mutter out loud, getting the brush stuck again, "I sure as hell am."

He pauses for a long moment. Then... //I'm so proud!// he chortles merrily, //Soon you'll be disrespecting your elders and rebelling against authority! Burning government officials in effigy! Playing deafening heavy metal music! Watching 'The Osbournes'! Committing petty acts of thievery! Joining a gang! Starting a gang! Beating up senior citizens! Going over to the convalescent hospital and kicking shins! Shaking down girl scouts for their cookie money! It'll be great!//

The fact that he has his hands clasped daintily in front of his chest and is beaming angelically (complete with mischievously gleaming chocolate eyes) is rather frightening to me.

//I knew you had promise!// he continues, smile widening in a more than slightly frightening way.

I, naturally, blush. But staring down that maniacal grin, I can't help but wonder... did he get into the sugary breakfast cereal again?

* * *

Two minutes.

They'll be here in two minutes.

I'm sitting here, stuck in an itchy suit that's a size too big, with my hair drooping rather lifelessly over my shoulders (Yami says I look girlier than usual, and I'm inclined to agree with him), wearing shoes a size too small, and reeking of the cologne that father dumped on me, which smells suspiciously like burned skunk.

Father is uncharacteristically nervous, going so far as to have changed his tie at least twenty times in the last two minutes.

I am currently forcing myself to subdue my odd, yami-like urge to use my Ring to steal his soul. The Ring is stuck under my overly-starched shirt, because, quote, "You're going to look respectable, not like some big-shot American rapper boy from the hood."

I'm still not quite certain what father was talking about.

One minute until Armageddon.

I close my eyes and brace myself. It is not manly to whimper and whine for my mommy. Nor is it manly to run away, according to the psycho that lives in my head. Apparently, this does not apply when one is being pursued by an enraged pharaoh who is ready, willing, and more than capable of banishing you to the Shadow Realm for the rest of eternity. Under those circumstances Yami says that the ability to run like a scared rabbit is one that is both noble, highly respectable, and greatly sought after amongst the tomb robbers of the world.

Mild hysterical screaming wafts in from the direction of the kitchen. I believe the catering staff has just discovered our recent attempt to make breakfast. Last time I saw it, it was bright purple and I swear to Ra... I mean, I swear to kami-sama the thing was moving.

I hope the caterers have strong stomachs. That was the only time I've seen my yami throw knives at something other than people he doesn't like. The resulting ooze that curled up into the corners was so disgusting neither of us could bring ourselves to go near it. And my yami's the one that likes the taste of blood.

The screaming's drifting away now, and there's a... railing under my hand?

Oh.

For some obscure reason, my yami has decided to take our body out for a joyride and we are currently climbing the stairs.

/Yami?/

//...?//

/What are you doing? And why are we in the bathroom?/

Ack! Modesty, modesty, why didn't I tell my yami about modesty?!

My nice itchy blue suit is now in a nice itchy blue pile next to the toilet, and my formerly straight and shiny hair is being ruthlessly rumpled by a very cheesed-off tomb robber.

Then my yami stands up and grins at our boxer-clad self in the mirror. The sensation is more than a little disconcerting. I don't grin like that. Nobody who's completely sane grins like that. My incisors aren't that sharp, either. And the fact that there are little skulls on our boxers rather surprises me. Yami must've gone shopping (yes, most people would consider that stealing, but my yami is not most people) and forgotten to inform me.

"No fucking way we are gonna go out looking like a fucking pansy, little one," he snarls, tossing open the door and stalking back down the hall to the bedroom.

I send a brief prayer up to kami-sama that no one else is upstairs. Prayer answered! My room! With my less itchy clothing!

/Yami, we are not carrying any of your sharp pointy things, and we are not wearing anything that makes me look like a male slut,/ I hiss warningly as he grins at our closet.

"...?" he questions as he tosses my other nice, clean clothing over his shoulder with nary a glance.

/Never mind./

In less than two minutes, he's satisfied. I didn't let him stick any sharp or pointy things up our sleeves, so that's one less threat to worry about. And I do look less girly with my usual hairstyle.

He finds this incredibly amusing. //Aibou, you are a little girl!//

...bastard. /Shut up, Yami./

"Ryou! Where are you? They just turned into the driveway!" father roars from downstairs, clearly panicked.

My yami blinks in confusion. //Now how the hell did they manage to do that?//

I sweatdrop as we switch places with a burst of golden light. "He didn't mean it literally, yami," I mutter under my breath as I dart down the stairs.

//...whatever.//

That's his new favorite phrase. No more American reality TV shows for him.

//You wouldn't dare,// he growls darkly as I come to a screeching halt by my father's side.

I resist the urge to stick out my tongue, as father would undoubtedly haul me off to the loony bin for making obscene gestures at myself, as well as for insulting myself, as well as for hitting myself over the head with a frying pan, though he doesn't know about that part. Britney Spears... (I can't quite keep from shuddering) is eeeeevil.

"Ryou - what are you wearing?" he gasps in horror.

Um... good question. What am I wearing? I look down. Sneakers. Yes. That's what I'm wearing. And... black jeans? Jeans aren't very formal - especially not jeans this tight. Um... okay... let's see here... a shirt. Wearing a shirt is good. Oh - it's a t-shirt. That's not good. It's black, one of my yami's favorite colors after gold and blood-red. I tilt my head down still further to get a better glimpse at whatever is emblazoned across the front.

/YAMI!/

I can feel the evil grin. //Ne, aibou?// he asks ever-so-innocently. Have I mentioned that my yami is very bad at acting innocent?

/Did you have to choose this shirt?/

My clueless other half raises a spectral eyebrow. //What's wrong with it?//

/It's got "Death" plastered across the front in big red letters, Yami. With a little dagger dripping blood at the end for and exclamation mark./

He sniffs indignantly. //Well, if you're gonna be that way about it, you can just wear that idiotic itchy demon robe then, can't you?//

"Ryou..." my father's voice interrupts my rebuttal. The poor man sounds pitifully helpless. I do believe he's about to cry. Either that or disown me, I'm not sure which.

I glance back up at him. I recognize that look. It's the classic, oh-he-was-such-a-good-boy-where-did-I-go-wrong? expression of ultimate despair.

"Can you at least take off the necklace?" he asks tiredly.

My Ring? He wants me to take off my Ring?! Is he trying to kill me?!

"NO!" I burst out instinctively, clutching the precious item to my chest protectively. Is he crazy? My Ring is my Ring!

//I'LL FUCKING KILL HIM!// Yami roars, scrambling for control over our body.

I manage to stop my hands an inch from father's throat. /Bakaaaaa! If we do that, who's gonna feed us?/ It's crappy reasoning, but this is my yami we're talking about. He thinks killing people is fun.

A long pause while father goggles at my apparently insane self.

Then, //I'll kill him and steal all his money?// Yami asks plaintively.

/NO!/

//Kill him and rewrite his will?//

/NO!/

//Rewrite his will and then kill him?//

It's all I can do to keep from sighing. /No./

He tries again. //Okay. Kill him-//

Ow!!

I raise a hand to my stinging cheek and gape at my father, who looks very uncomfortable with having just struck his only son. I'm in shock myself. Ordinarily he would never do something like that.

//I'LL FUCKING KILL HIM!!// Yami screeches indignantly, already half in control of our body.

/YAMI!/ I fling myself into my soul room, race out into the corridor that joins our rooms, and tackle him just as he starts to vanish.

"Oof! What the- Shit!" he snarls, flipping over and glowering at me through a mess of silvery bangs.

I 'eep' involuntarily. My yami has a very piercing stare. "Ano..." And I am just a nice, sweet, ever-so-innocent hikari, at whom said yami is now very pissed. Um... help?

"What. The fuck. Was that for?!" he snarls, leaning close enough that I can see the amber in his eyes glowing with rage.

"Um. You shouldn't kill our father?" I try feebly.

He scowls blackly. "He touched you," my yami hisses silkily, lifting a pale hand to curve with surprising gentleness against my reddened face.

I can't help but squeak in shock. That strange, rare feeling swirls in the air around him, velvety and chillingly warm. I've only felt it a few times before, whenever someone has had the audacity to lay a finger on me. His eyes are so dark...

"Yami, please? He's my father..." I manage to whisper through a suddenly tight throat. What's wrong with me?

His eyes narrow dangerously, and I don't know whether he's going to punch me or... or...

*SMACK*

"Itai! Papa, what was that for?" I gasp, shocked back into my body.

Yami's raging in the back of my head, but I ignore his fevered ranting as best as I can. Father's giving me a look that is utterly confused and nearly helpless with frustration.

"Ryou, what's the matter with you?" he demands. "You're never like this!"

I blink in consternation. /Huh?/ My yami snorts and mutters something exceedingly rude under his breath. Guess he doesn't know either. "Papa, what are you talking about?" I ask, honestly bewildered.

His expression is tired. "Like this! Dressed like a punk, out of touch with reality, acting as though you're a psychiatrist's worst nightmare! What is wrong with you?"

The doorbell rings, sealing my doom, and I am spared having to reply.

Father gives me one last look of supreme frustration and races off to answer it and usher in our guests.

The crystal-still quiet before the storm is strange. /...Yami?/

//...?// Yami's still mad. And plotting my father's nasty demise, no doubt.

I look down at my hands, confused. /What is wrong with me?/

He's unusually quiet as he ponders my question. //I don't know, aibou...// Then he snorts in disgust. //Aw, hell. The old man's nuts, that's all. There's nothing wrong with you.//

"But how would you know?"

Yami frowns inwardly, but doesn't reply.

Which is good, because right then father calls in a rather strained voice, "Ryou, come greet our guests!"

/Yami?/ I ask as I slowly trudge into the hall.

//What?// he grumbles.

/We're gonna die,/ I inform him solemnly, and plaster a fake smile onto my face as I turn to greet our guests.

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