Title: Drink of this Inheritance
Author: Swii
Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh.
Pairing: Seto/Ryou, Malik/Ryou. More?
Genre: Romance/Angst, yet with not so much romance as angst.
Rating: Overall maybe 16+, but I'd say this chapter is PG.
Warnings: Character death, teenage angst, yaoi, AU. Bears no resemblance to canon, sorry. Summary and title are subject to change –I'm a flighty thing.
Summary: Life after the death of loved ones. Ryou deals with grief on life's terms and learns that he has more to offer than he thought.

Chapter One

Ryou Bakura lived off the idea that people were inherently good and kind-hearted --that even the most evil, the most sinister amongst history behaved as they thought was just and right. All else could be explained by confusion, by carelessness, and by cowardice. He repeated this idea until he believed it, told himself that every slight done unto him was an innocent mistake. Looking back, he wonders if it was more cruel to have suffered under blind eyes than deliberate hands. Did he honestly matter so little to so many?

And striking upon this thought, Ryou would always recoil and return to what he knew.

The first day he moved to Domino, he had left behind old trauma for new chances and a scarcely decorated, poorly lit hotel room. His father had been communicating with friends from college and came across a job opening for a prestigious art and culture museum situated in Japan. Mr. Bakura came to get away from his past in London and for a promising job interview. What he didn't mention was how he was staking his career on a new location --one that did not bring back memories of his deceased wife and daughter around every street corner. If he managed to land the job, he would be the director of the entire archaeological research section of the museum, while still being able to work through the museum's Acquisitions Department on excavations in a separate post in Egypt. Ryou's father was one of the best in his field –well known, published, and had already obtained several grants for his research on found artifacts and their links to historical cultures. Ryou was very proud of his father and his accomplishments, and as a child, was incessant about sharing the latest adventure his father had with the few friends who offered up their rapt attention.

To be honest, Ryou knew that he had bad luck with relationships. He was rotten at reading people and had been socially awkward since preschool. He could hold on to very little. One, he knew that he was loved by his family. Two, when his mother and Amane died, the reason his father continued working was out of grief, not disregard. Three, he was all his father had left, and vice versa. But so long as they had each other, they could overcome the most recent crisis --that their family had been cleaved in two. Alone in the hotel room, in that new country, he felt shuttered away in his own small world stripped bare of the old comforts. He could only wait for his father to return, hoping against hope for another chance to know true friendship and bliss. It would be what his mother and sister would have wanted.

Ryou remembers that day and the following weeks like it had been yesterday; the feeling of being buried alive under insatiable dreams and wants until he knew no other sensations besides the emptiness of a wish unrecognized.

It was still crystal-clear: he had been sitting on the recently made bed watching Japanese news on a small box-like television set, wondering to himself how long it would take before the words would not sound quite so fast. He had just been about to flip off the channel when he heard the clicks of a key turning, and the quick crash of the door swinging inward. His dad practically charged in with stars in his eyes and a smile he had once only used around mother.

"You got the job?" Ryou asked, trying to exercise his Japanese.

"Better yet," his father began, closing the door, and moving close to Ryou. He held the silence for a few seconds, looking at his son's face the entire time to gauge the escalating suspense.

"Well?"

"They want me to start next week! Can you imagine? Back in Egypt in just another week," he exclaimed. The man laughed a single "HA" as if not believing it himself before collapsing back onto an empty bed.

"That's brilliant. I'm happy for you, dad."

"Thanks, Ryou, but now we have even more matters to take care of. Now that I'm part of the museum's board of directors, they hope I will also maintain a permanent residence here in Domino. We'll need to find a place to live." Mr. Bakura discreetly did not mention the accompanying fact; we'll need to sell the old house.

Ryou was still confused by his own feelings towards the big change. He didn't dare let out a breath he had unknowingly held lest the sigh should sound less like one of relief than despair. He hadn't counted on the job coming so quickly, or coming at all. Still, he had quickly grabbed some realty magazines at the city's train station when his dad had been busy hailing a cab. Ryou had gone through these journals repeatedly the entire day to ward off boredom, circling a few that caught his eye.

"How about an apartment, then? It's only the two of us and we don't need a big house," like we did in England, he thought, "with the money we save we could take more vacations back home or save it for something important later." Ryou held out the small pile to his father, who was already sitting up and beaming at him.

"You wouldn't mind living here, so far from what we're used to?"

"Of course not, dad, I'm already starting to feel right at home." It was a lie, of course, but Ryou was already content that his father had not disagreed or said anything like, "No, Ryou, let's buy a house just in case I get over my grief and remarry" or, "revisit London, are you mad?" It was one of Ryou's greatest fears at this point, besides the vengeful spirit from his "millennium ring," complete and utter social rejection, and tight spaces, that his father may indeed deal with his loss and move on –leaving Ryou behind. Because he is all that I have left. Ryou saw his dad as a fun-loving man whom looked much younger than what he actually was. Mr. Bakura kept his long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, and he looked dashing in a suit and tie, which he always wore for special occasions, such as interviews, marriages, family reunions, school plays, and yes, funerals.

Ryou had resigned himself never to speak about this irrational fear because he never wanted his dad to know how much he fixated over one's wording, the choice of words, frivolous details, or these "grown-up" issues at all.

"That's my boy," his father said, taking off his glasses to tuck into his shirt pocket before flipping through each magazine –filled with pictures of apartments and the realtors selling them. Ryou didn't respond, choosing instead to turn off the TV and lie back onto his bed, willing his body to relax for the first time since he came to Japan.

Flash forward past the cold gray walls, dusty halls, and simplistic design of a cheap hotel and Ryou was finally living in a new city, in a new country, and a new breeding ground for trouble. The two of them had found an apartment with two bedrooms, a large living room, and a pleasant view. Ryou's father had looked at the large empty space of the living area with amazement, commenting on how they could easily entertain ten, no, fifteen guests. It had almost been half a year and not a single person had set foot in the place besides Ryou, his dad, and the agent who rented it to them. That was, so long as the spirit did not count. Since then, Ryou's father has been away on a promising dig for the entire time but Ryou had long since learned to manage on his own.

They had checked out of the hotel early on their second morning in Japan, each with a single suitcase of luggage. The sun was on their backs, casting long shadows on the black pavement in front of them as they waited for a taxi to take them on their quest. Something about being in a different world with only a single bag of possessions emboldened Ryou. Sadly for his adventurous streak, the search for an apartment ended at the very first establishment: a new building on one of the quieter streets in the city. Thus, the apartment complex that towered over the surrounding structures in all its glass, metal alloy, and reinforced concrete glory became a new home. Ryou had to admit that the tenement was a well thought out architectural triumph, not exactly art or a masterpiece, but still impressive nonetheless. Besides the accommodating prices, the apartment was also favorable for its western floor plan, which both of them were already used to. As their furniture arrived by truck, Ryou came to terms with how he would never live in his old home again. The house hadn't sold yet, there was simply no market for it, but it seemed equally impossible to live there again with the reminders of loss reverberating through the very wall. So Ryou tried his best to settle in, as his dad made return trips to the museum sorting out some details of the job. It didn't help that Ryou had a gut feeling that his father would have taken the first apartment regardless of the location, the architecture, the floor plan, or the price.

The sweaty movers spent a good few hours placing each piece of furniture wherever Ryou needed them to go. His father still needed to work out proper modes of transportation, delivery of supplies, and he had yet to pick out an excavation team. This left Ryou with the difficult task of making the clean white walls, dark wood floors, and glaringly bright windows look like home. For days, he opened up box after box of miscellaneous items: clothes, books, kitchenware and more. Once while he worked, he noticed that the room was bereft of any smells. Amane used to play with his mother's perfumes, and one day she spilled a bottle of her finest scents. They could never quite get the smell of ginger and nutmeg out of the room.

And so the first week had passed, with methodical order only broken by melancholy recollections. Four tall, black, antique bookshelves now housed a wealth of knowledge from politics to arts and humanity, from books on the Italian Renaissance to ones covering the Great Depression. They spanned tomes on the island of Australia to the life and death of Mozart and other great composers. There were ones that talked about the art of Da Vinci, Botticelli, Bellini, and Michelangelo. Collections of works by Alexandre Dumas, Nabokav, Nietzsche, Ovid, Plato, and Oscar Wildes. Several more were dissertations on the masters, and collections of their letters and sketches. On the coffee table sat Henry James and Rembrandt –between them lay Lewis Carroll. Stacked on top of the bookshelves were ones that boasted information on Ancient Egypt, hieroglyphics, and modern linguistics. While the windows were fitted with deep blue curtains, the kitchen was stocked with the family's heirloom: fine china, the refrigerator filled with an array of foods, the apartment was still not a home, and no amount of rearrangement would make it into one.

Ryou tried putting pictures all around the house, on all the nightstands and desks. In the extra room doubling as a study, Ryou stored his board games in a large wooden chest. It still didn't calm his fears of never belonging to these strange surroundings, let alone society. How else could he mask his thoughts? He made the beds, cooked and cleaned, registered himself for high school, bought textbooks and a uniform, and at the end of the day he still fell asleep with thoughts of "home." The idea itself was illusive and confounding. Unattainable and accepted.

Ryou eventually resigned himself to a city map and a Japanese-English dictionary for whenever his vocabulary was not as poetic as he wanted (or needed) it to be. He was bad enough at speaking to people, the added language barrier and stress of choosing his words would be an utter annoyance. The first weeks of school, Ryou had sworn never to speak a word lest someone laugh at him or worst yet –thought him a wretched, blundering oaf. He hated sparse language and how he only knew one wording for things in Japanese –the simplest form. He could have no subtleties of speech, no rhetoric, and no diction. Even in plain English he could have no guarantee that he wouldn't say something indelicate or just stupid. In Japanese? He could scarcely hazard a guess.

School offered more distractions than the apartment, though the first months were filled with self-conscious moments spanning the entire day –fretting about his intonation when he chose to speak or his strangely colored hair in comparison to the rest of his class. His blonde hair bordered on pristine snow, and he quickly learned the Japanese word for "albino" from all the questions he fielded from his peers. In school, the spirit cackled into his ear, whispering god-knows-what. He would never forget the chilling grip around his heart feeling the ancient soul's thirst for blood. His ring almost came alive the first day in school, dragging him along alien corridors until the spirit became still and silent without warning. Oh, Ryou still cringed at the memory of the giddiness that flooded his mind right afterwards, as if the phantom had discovered an all-important secret.

This occult spirit lived inside the millenium ring --an artifact Ryou's father bought for him from a peddlar while in Egypt three years ago. The Ring itself seemed at first to be a bulky piece of jewelry, but it was the voice Ryou heard that garnered his interest. He wore it around his neck and underneath his shirt, wondering if he was going mad from loneliness. But when at night he found himself talking to himself, it was a warmer thought that someone was listening. Someone who might be a sign of encouragement from his mother or Amane. And thus, no matter how terrified he was by the spirit, Ryou decided it would be more reasonable to fear what was real than what was speculation. Besides, the spirit of the Ring rarely spoke.

Besides the crawling pace of school, Ryou passed the first three weeks without a phone, television, or internet seeing as all he needed to communicate was a sheet of paper, a pencil, an envelope, and sufficient postage. He had no one else to talk to and nothing that he really cared for seeing. In a way, Ryou took a month to grieve his lost lifestyle and the absence of anyone at all before finally living again.

In this fashion, several more months slipped on by. His Japanese improved to the accuracy and speed of a native speaker of the language. Though his teachers had not originally agreed on the wisdom of his transfer, any instructor could now spew litanies of praise over Ryou Bakura's intellect and modest nature.

Ryou made an effort to befriend others, even if out of discomfort in being alone. One boy who especially liked games had been very kind to him –Yuugi Motou. He never knew if it was a lasting type of friendship but he hoped for it, truly. The two of them frequently chatted during lunch, but Yuugi already had a group of friends who cared for him a great deal. Despite never ostracizing or eschewing him outright, they didn't go out of their way to include him in anything either. In a way, it was hurtful but Ryou could never find a way to blame them. After all, they had each other first, and perhaps he was just not easily approachable, agreeable, or likable. It was a good gamble. In any case, Yuugi never looked terribly apologetic, so Ryou told himself to keep his expression mild, content, and accepting. Coming second was a fact of life. It was better than not having a place at all.

There was money wired to his bank account weekly, like clockwork, but Ryou found his first letter in his box (602) in March. He was addressed simply as "My Son" on a thick package of papers. Ryou took it gingerly out of his box, pressed it to his chest and vouched for running up the staircase instead of waiting for an elevator. He couldn't get home (for after the first month he had also resigned himself to calling the place "home") fast enough before tearing into his mail. Ryou spilled the contents out onto the dinner table. There was a blank leather-bound journal inside and a letter. His father questioned him about the environment in school, if he made friends, if his grades were all right, and even if he was making sure to eat properly.

Ryou was almost to the end before reading something that caused a little piece of him to shrivel up and die.

Ryou, I know you might not like it but I want you to try to understand. I met someone here in Egypt. A great woman by the name of Natalie….

He couldn't hold back soft whimpers. A shuddering breath.

Now, I don't want you to think that I don't remember your mother. She and Amane are in my heart every single day. But I think it might be good for you to have a mother figure around.

Ryou shook his head and squinted to stop the tears from coming at least. I had a mother figure, dad. I don't need another one, he thought.

We're almost done the analytical work at the excavation sites. You should have seen the artifacts we found! There was treasure everywhere. I am sorry that I've become so busy as to neglect you son. Please, keep writing to me even if I'm slow to respond. I found a journal that should suit your tastes. You should have enough money to also buy a cellphone now. Most teenagers have one. I want you to know that it wouldn't be a betrayal to start reaching out in your life. I'll be back in just a month, son. I want you to meet Natalie, the person I found once I started reaching out in mine. She's interested in meeting you too. I love you, Ryou.

He had waited four months just for a definitive answer on if his father was healed enough to move on, and Ryou wasn't happy with his answer. He had been right though; his father was resilient and capable of recovering. He tried telling himself that Dad was right; he didn't mind this new change. The letter he held in his hands felt more like another loss.

How did he know deep down that something like this would occur? He wasn't supposed to be so clever or so clairvoyant. To be so suspicious of the people left around him. Ah, but there were so few left! Could he help but guard hid father? The remnants of the old way of life. Every doubt he ever had about the future seemed to be coming true. His father didn't wait for him before charging on without him. Ryou never wanted for the bad truths, really, but they had a habit of seeking him out and confronting him. His apartment was no longer a comfort, the rooms that he meticulously picked up after meant little to him. Now, there was not even a homey smell, no warmth, no family, and no place he wanted to call his own. Ryou didn't eat that night, or the morning after, he was so caught up in the past and all the times he tried to hide how deeply grief had affected him. Losing his mother, who was his closest confidant, and Amane, who never deserved tragedy, well, it had dredged out the floor beneath his feet. He was left needy and unwhole. His father...his father was like the roof over his head. He wondered if he could realistically be termed an orphan. Living in Domino was like a slow sinking, abandoned to a busy world. He was lost, he was lost, and all the while drowning.

Ryou couldn't sleep through that night either; the mysterious soul living within his millennium ring mocked him through all hours of the dark in words of a foreign tongue. He sobbed quietly at the storm of thoughts and emotions resurfacing like an old wound picked afresh by his father's letter. And the spirit...it didn't take skill in language to comprehend the pity and loathing behind the words. Pity. It anguished him that a bodiless entity could dredge up pity and scorn for him. Ryou listened to the husky whispers, a welcome poison in order not to think of all the voices he would never hear again. Somehow, he understood every word, every syllable –he often called himself the same things.

You poor, pathetic fool.


A/N: Edited 8/12/09. New fanfiction yet again, I'm not sure how it came to me and I'm not sure why I'm even back into this fandom. Things to keep in mind: this series won't follow canon at all (like how I'm making Ryou British), so I'm going to be calling it an AU. Chapters will most likely not be beta-read. If there is anything grievous, please point it out to me. Feel free to ask questions; this will most likely get me thinking as well. Also, stylistically: too dry? Too awful in general? What about pacing? Is it too angsty? Because god knows I hate wangst, and angst for no good reason.

Hopefully the actual chapters will improve. I won't be adding the heading for every chapter unless the rating changes.