Yu-Gi-Oh! Fan Fiction ❯ Room For Rent ❯ Chapter I ( Chapter 1 )

Room For Rent

Disclaimer: Me no own. You no sue. The peasants rejoice.

Chapter I

Ryou sighed, as he usually did whenever he was conscious, staring down at the piece of notebook paper that should've contained his homework, but now only contained a bunch of pretty blue and pink lines. Stupid quantum physics. His elbow, resting on aforementioned paper, slipped and sent his mind out of its stupor-like state and his nose into his desk.

"Urg…" he groaned, prying his face from the desk.

This obviously wasn't working. He wasn't getting any homework done, so he might as well do something enjoyable instead. He slid out of his spinny chair, hearing several of his bones cracking back into place as he stretched. He then stumbled down the stairs, managing to bang his knee on the unhelpful banister (it was very slippery and only made him fall more often; he had stopped using after he'd got a concussion from hitting his cranium on it, three weeks after he'd moved in).

After he had reached the kitchen, now sporting a bruised knee and an aching nosebone, he poured some orange juice into his favorite sunshine cup and retrieved a box of raisins from his cabinet. Afterward, he decided not to make that particular snack combination ever again, but for the moment, he was gulping down his citrus-flavored drink.

Just then, the phone rang. He hurried to it, since he was expecting calls in response to the ad he had put in the paper. Being in college, he was usually short on money, and since he had inherited this big house from his father, he'd had the bright idea to take in a boarder. Thankfully, he had no serious mishaps upon reaching the ringing piece of technology.

"Moshi moshi," he said, placing his usual fake cheerfulness in his voice.

"Moshi moshi. I'm calling about the room you have for rent," came the deep voice from the receiver.

"Oh, yes."

"How many windows?"

"One."

"Hm. That's good. And what direction does it face?"

"West, I think," Ryou said, not letting his curiosity at the question reflect in his voice.

"Even better. When can I come over and see it?"

"When's good for you?"

"In about an hour."

"I'll be here. Would you like directions?"

"No, I can manage. Ja ne."

The caller hung the phone up, evidence being the loud beep of the dial tone coming back. He placed it back on its cradle. "He didn't even tell me his name… actually, it might not even be a he! It could be a woman with an extremely deep voice!"

Oh, well. It was only a boarder. He could deal with pituitary gland problems if he/she/it could, as long as he/she/it made his/her/its rent deadline. He was about to pop another raisin in his mouth, when he realized it felt strange in a non-pruny way. He examined it, only to find that there was some strange type of mold growing on it. He quickly decided to throw the box away.

He took one last draught of orange juice before putting the glass upside-down in the dishwasher. Then, he began trying to clean his house.

*~*

Bakura sat at a Denny's booth, circling a newspaper with a spiffy red Sharpie. He had been looking for a new place of residence for three days now, coinciding when his ex-girlfriend had kicked him out of her apartment. He had looked at everything from apartments, to condos, to one-room shacks, and still he had not found a place to his liking.

He sipped coffee from the cup the waitress had just refilled for him, nibbling on a sausage link. He pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket, glancing down at the ad as he punched the numbers. 555-6857.

"Moshi moshi," came the cheerful voice from the other end. He groaned. A morning person.

"Moshi moshi," he answered, pausing for an acceptable amount of time before continuing. "I'm calling about the room you have for rent."

There was a moment's pause. "Oh, yes."

Bakura thought that was a stupid response. He decided not to say anything about it, hoping dearly that this wasn't just another dumb blonde. "How many windows?" he asked. He was very particular about windows. He didn't like being awoken at seven-thirty on Saturdays because of annoying sunlight and a lack of blinds.

"One."

"What direction does it face?" It better not be east-facing. (This is probably why he hasn't yet found a place to his liking.)

"West, I think." He could tell by the tone of voice that the boy was just guessing. Oh well. He shouldn't be a pessimist.

"Even better. When can I come over and see it?"

"When's good for you?"

"In about an hour," he said, glancing at his watch. He needed to be there by ten, then.

"I'll be here. Would you like directions?"

"No. I can manage." Men never ask for directions. "Ja ne." Men think they don't need directions. Bakura pressed the END button, tucking his phone back in his pocket. Then, he paid his check and walked out the door.

His car was a Honda. It was silver, with a dark gray, almost black, cloth interior. It had a CD player. It was special. He popped his Metallica CD in and began `singing' with them. He was looking for the Hidden Acres subdivision. It had a sign at the entrance, so he'd have no trouble finding it, right?

Wrong.

He got lost. An hour passed before he even asked for directions. And even then, it was a very reluctant way of asking for directions.

But he eventually got there, almost running over several old ladies wearing red hats as they jaywalked. It served them right.

"Jaywalking is against the law!" he yelled as he ran the red light.

When he finally pulled up into what he highly suspected was the correct driveway, he was met with the sight of a two-story yellowish-beige house. It had green-teal shutters and a porch swing. He liked the porch swing, but decided that he could play on the porch swing later; he was late enough as it was. He didn't know if the owner of the house was even still waiting on him; he might have given up and gone to a mall…or a skating rink…or an adult book store. He didn't know, but speculation might not have been the best thing, especially for Bakura's poor, disturbed mind.

He pushed the doorbell, hearing the ring as it echoed throughout the house. A minute or two later, he heard footsteps and the sound of a door unlocking. The boy peered out at him.

"Are you the one who's interested in renting a room?"

Bakura was shocked. Not by the question, but by the person asking the question. He looked to be a few years younger than himself, with shoulder-length white hair and big chocolate-colored eyes. Now, a young person with white hair was strange enough, but one that looked almost exactly like him…? They could almost be twins, if the boy was a little taller. However, he dismissed his train of thoughts, stepping into the house.

"Sorry I'm late."

"It's O.K."

"My name's Bakura."

"Ryou."

"So, where's the room?"

Ryou, who had been staring at him since he'd opened the door, dropped his gaze, turned around, and led him through the hall. "I'm sorry if the house is messy; I didn't have time to clean up."

"It's fine."