DISCLAIMER: Oh!!!! Noo! I forgot to put this in the last chapter, so I know
this is a little late, but: I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh! I wish I did, but I
don't. I can't believe I forgot that!
Pt Two
Yugi picked up a piece of paper.
"What am I supposed to say to him?" he asked the voice.
Whatever. Something, Yugi. It's Pegasus. He has to know, Kaiba answered promptly. Write, Yugiboy.
"You got that off Pegsy," Yugi muttered distantly, but not really being very attentive. He dipped the tip of his pen into the inkpot beside him, on his desk.
Write, Yugi. Please. For us, Tea's voice pleaded. Yugi scowled. He wouldn't deny Tea of anything. She knew this perfectly well.
Then again, they were only voices in his head. It wasn't as if they were real people.
We are, Tristan broke in. You know we are. So help us one last time.
"OK, OK already!" he gave in, impatiently. "I'm doing it, you ... " He scowled harder. Now he was conversing with the voices in his head. With reluctant surprise, he realized that he could no longer remember exactly what Tristan - or any of the others - looked like. Had he had blonde hair? Or was that Joey? No, wait; the blonde one had been Bakura, right?
He sighed. The job was awaiting him. The paper was spread on the desk. The pen, full with black ink - kind of like the waters in a sewer, Yugi thought unhappily - was making a blot over the white expanse of the unwritten letter.
Write, damn you, a voice forced him. Yugi searched for it's identity, and recoiled in shock when he found it.
It was little Yugi. He could barely remember himself in his youth; a pale shadow of what he was today; or was that the opposite of the truth? In his younger years, he had been lively, bright, overflowing with energy, and now he was cold, withdrawn, tired of life. Maybe present Yugi was the shadow. In fact, it was pretty damn likely. Big, grown up Yugi might be successful, but he was never actually happy. He delved into those misty, faded memories, remembering happiness, friends, passion ... and here he was now. Writing a letter in a dreary little office. Or, more accurately, avoiding writing a letter.
Come on, Big Guy, the young one pressed, but more gently this time. Please? I know you'll do it for me.
Yugi grinned. "You got it, Small Stuff. I'll do it for you."
Despite the promise, he waited one long, pensive moment. Dreaming. Remembering.
Then he set the pen to the paper.
Pt Two
Yugi picked up a piece of paper.
"What am I supposed to say to him?" he asked the voice.
Whatever. Something, Yugi. It's Pegasus. He has to know, Kaiba answered promptly. Write, Yugiboy.
"You got that off Pegsy," Yugi muttered distantly, but not really being very attentive. He dipped the tip of his pen into the inkpot beside him, on his desk.
Write, Yugi. Please. For us, Tea's voice pleaded. Yugi scowled. He wouldn't deny Tea of anything. She knew this perfectly well.
Then again, they were only voices in his head. It wasn't as if they were real people.
We are, Tristan broke in. You know we are. So help us one last time.
"OK, OK already!" he gave in, impatiently. "I'm doing it, you ... " He scowled harder. Now he was conversing with the voices in his head. With reluctant surprise, he realized that he could no longer remember exactly what Tristan - or any of the others - looked like. Had he had blonde hair? Or was that Joey? No, wait; the blonde one had been Bakura, right?
He sighed. The job was awaiting him. The paper was spread on the desk. The pen, full with black ink - kind of like the waters in a sewer, Yugi thought unhappily - was making a blot over the white expanse of the unwritten letter.
Write, damn you, a voice forced him. Yugi searched for it's identity, and recoiled in shock when he found it.
It was little Yugi. He could barely remember himself in his youth; a pale shadow of what he was today; or was that the opposite of the truth? In his younger years, he had been lively, bright, overflowing with energy, and now he was cold, withdrawn, tired of life. Maybe present Yugi was the shadow. In fact, it was pretty damn likely. Big, grown up Yugi might be successful, but he was never actually happy. He delved into those misty, faded memories, remembering happiness, friends, passion ... and here he was now. Writing a letter in a dreary little office. Or, more accurately, avoiding writing a letter.
Come on, Big Guy, the young one pressed, but more gently this time. Please? I know you'll do it for me.
Yugi grinned. "You got it, Small Stuff. I'll do it for you."
Despite the promise, he waited one long, pensive moment. Dreaming. Remembering.
Then he set the pen to the paper.