I was pleasantly surprised to find that people are reading this story. I can only hope as an author that my work is received and understood by the people I am trying to reach. Everything I've written has crashed and burned. I've gotten used to the feeling of averaging two reviews per chapter. When did it become all about the reviews, anyway? Why can't I just focus on making myself a better writer? Why does the popularity contest always distract me? I will not write yaoi to get reviews. I will not write slash to get reviews. I will not write pornography to get reviews. This is not about pornography. This is not about reviews.
It's about life.
~~~
The taxi drive home felt like hours. The cold, wet weather of winter cast the city in blue and yellow lights flickered on dutifully in this early evening. Yugi was plastered to the window, taking everything in anew, his eyes darting with the movement of the sunset behind the trees.
Yami stared at him, lost in thought, unsure of how to think or what to do or say. He felt so out of place—he'd never been a father—and hadn't the faintest clue of how to act now that he was. He still had it in his head that going along with the "daddy" illusion was just an elaborate deception, and Yami absolutely detested the possibility that he was lying to his hikari.
Solomon asked the taxi driver to stop at a grocery store that happened to be on the way back to the house. He dashed inside for some reason Yami didn't know—he didn't know anything aside from the fact that he'd been left alone with Yugi, left alone in the car with this boy who for some strange reason he felt he didn't know anymore—this boy wearing clothes donated to the hospital (his short had been cut and his pants held stains and memories Solomon didn't care to tend to), wearing a shirt two sizes too large for him with a faded ad on the front for a laser eye surgeon no one ever heard of—this boy staring raptly out the window though everything hurt and Yami could smell the blood on him. He was still bleeding.
Yugi shifted in his seat and grimaced, hugging himself tightly and leaning against the doorframe. Yami could imagine how tired he was—he'd lost so much blood, the doctors said, and Yami watched him and felt pity for him and was moved to comfort him or say something—anything—but he didn't know what to say or to do and he'd never been a father before and he felt terrible for his neglect now. But he stayed quiet and he said nothing and Yugi said nothing and after a moment, Solomon returned and the driver took them home.
"Okay, my boy, we're here," Solomon said to Yugi as soon as they were in the door. "Now you're going to get a bath and something to eat and then it's bedtime, okay?"
The boy grinned wearily—he still seemed rather hesitant. He remembered Solomon like instinct, and in a sense he remembered them both—deep in his bones. He knew they were a part of him and had been for a substantial amount of time, just like the house and the walls. Everything seemed to be encrypted into his very being, but the feel of it had changed. It had become harder to remember. He didn't know his last name, and when he tried to thing of it, a haze shrouded the memories—a fog thick as soup—and the words stuck in his mouth just like the memories stuck in his brain—the right side of his brain, above the temple where the blood pounded and throbbed and ached.
"Grampa," he said, though he wasn't sure why, and the sob stuck in his throat, his breath short, the tag of the too big shirt scratching his neck.
Solomon saw in his eyes how honestly lost he was, standing there, fiddling with the hem of the t-shirt, looking smaller than he'd ever been before. "It's okay," he replied, laying a hand on Yugi's shoulder. "I understand."
~~~
There were thousands and thousands of little bubbles—he couldn't count them all—pure and clean and sweet-smelling bubbles swimming along the top of his wonderfully warm bath water. The hands on him, washing him, were gentle and loving. They were his grandfather's hands, scrubbing him faithfully with all that soapy water.
"You haven't bathed in several days," Solomon was saying, "and I can't with a clear conscience put you to bed when you haven't bathed in several days."
Yugi stared at him with thoughtful eyes, completely unashamed in his nakedness or the blood in the water. The hands were gentle, and they were putting him to sleep. He blinked heavily.
"Are you tired," the old man asked.
"Uh-huh," he mumbled, fighting a yawn.
"I can imagine," Solomon mused. "Yami?"
The formerly addressed straightened obediently. He hadn't known what to do with himself, so he'd faded into the background, so to speak, becoming one with the counter and sink and mirror, not so much embarrassed to see his hikari naked as he was pained. It was hard to look at the boy—bruised and cut and bleeding.
"Yami," Solomon continued, "Can you go find a pair of his pajamas?"
Relieved of his silent post at last, he complied promptly, returning to the room with warm flannel pajama pants and a matching blue button-up nightshirt.
"Thank you, my boy," Mr. Mutou said. Then, to his grandson, "Time to wash your hair." The procedure was another instinct—lie down in the tub so that grandpa can easily get to your hair. "Yami, can you do me another favor?"
"As you wish."
"Can you reach the shampoo," he asked, beginning to wet the boy's hair. When Yami had retrieved the item, Solomon said, "Now, put some in your hand—no, more than that—just like if you were washing your own hair."
"And now," Yami asked.
"Rub your hands together."
And he did.
"Okay," Solomon continued, "come here. Yes, just kneel here."
Yami hesitated.
"Come on—don't be shy. Put your hands in the water just like mine."
They switched places.
"What," Yami protested, unsure of himself, "what do I do?"
"Put your hands in his hair," Solomon instructed, reaching under the sink for a towel. "Massage the scalp with your fingertips—and careful of the temple, I know it must sting."
Yami obeyed, hesitant, haltingly, running his fingers through hair and water, methodically scratching scalp with his nails. His eyes suddenly found Yugi's and they held gazes for several long minutes, his hikari looking up at him with unadulterated trust and admiration, and Yami himself staring back intently, the notion awkwardly striking him that he was holding Yugi's head in his hands. He was holding Yugi's trust in his hands.
In the times of kings and slaves, in parched deserts, water was scarce. Hair was regularly perfumed and not washed. Washing was reserved for the most decadent of events, and performed only by the highest attendants of kings and their royal families.
—And here he was now, this former pharaoh, washing the hair of a young boy—a young boy lying ear-deep in bath water, his heavy lids sliding slowly over amethyst irises.
Yami faltered.
He'd never felt more connected to a human being than now, sharing tired eye contact, cradling Yugi's head in his hands, the soft hair moving under the water like silk between his fingers.
It was getting difficult to breathe, and the flopped image of Yugi looking up from the tub had become blurred. Yami blinked but it didn't help.
Solomon's hand on his arm.
It's okay.
I understand.
Yami sniffed—once—and finished his task and they rinsed Yugi's hair and Solomon was allowed to dry him with the towel and take the blow dryer to his hair. His clothes were slipped on—including a maxi pad in the seat of his underpants.
Yami didn't think he'd ever get used to that part—he assumed the boy would have to wear them until he stopped bleeding. Yami hated it—he hated the whole thing—but Yugi didn't complain about how uncomfortable it was, although that was obvious in his pseudo grin. He only complied with his grandfather's request of, "Brush your teeth," since they ate before the bath. And so—fed, cleaned, and dried, Yugi stumbled off to bed.
~~~
"Are you all right?"
Yami blinked, drawn from his reverie. "Yes," he replied, "only preoccupied."
"I could see that much," Solomon noted. "Do you want to talk?"
Yami shrugged. "There is nothing…"
The elder Mutou allowed a pause for the other man's pride. "You know," he said, "it's okay if there is something."
After a moment, Yami buried his face in his hands. "I can't…place it—this emotion." He pasued, gathering words he knew would be inadequate. "I feel so…angry…at everything."
"You're angry," Mr. Mutou repeated, his tone gentle but prodding.
Yami ran his hands through his hair. "I feel such strong…reservations—" He stopped himself, sighed, looked up at Mr. Mutou once more, his frustration apparent. "I cannot even find words to describe it. I am furious. Why," he asked, an edge to his voice now, "why would anyone do such a thing? Why did Yugi have to take that godforsaken shortcut? Why did I not set out to look for him earlier? Why—why did any of this have to happen? What wrong did he ever do? Gods! I do not begin to understand why such an innocent creature should have to bear something so awful!"
"—I know. It makes me angry, too," Solomon admitted, hoping his quieter tone would help to sooth Yami's distress. "But it's not right to place the blame on anyone—not even ourselves." He lowered his voice. "I'm not sure how this will end. I don't have the answers. I have no idea what's in store for us. All I know is that my Yugi is still alive. I'll take everything else as it comes to me—it can only get better from here on out."
Yami straightened tiredly where he sat on the couch. "I wish I possessed your optimism," he yielded flatly.
"Oh, you needn't worry about a thing," Solomon said, grinning hopefully. "Yugi really looks up to you. Being his father will be a challenge, but it will be so rewarding. I promise you."
Yami considered his words carefully. "Solomon," he whispered at last, "I am not strong."
Meaning to say he was not strong enough to be Yugi's father. He was not strong enough to handle a mentally impaired teenager. He was not strong enough to be protective and loving and mad all at once. He was not mad enough to father an abused and wounded child.
Meaning to say he was afraid.
Solomon sighed. "I trust you," he said. "And I think you'll end up surprising yourself."
~~~
Sleeping was shallow and riddled with doubts and troubled shallow dreams. Sleeping was the time that the brain reconciled accounts and added up facts and stored away questions and fears for the next day of waking. Sleeping was no comfort to Yami, though he was impossibly weary from the last days' events. Sleeping brought him restlessness and unease.
Sleeping was shattered when Yami sensed a presence in his room—there in his doorway stood a small silhouette dark against the pitch black of the house but somehow still visible. "Daddy," it said. It was Yugi, and for some reason beyond rational explanation, Yami was afraid.
It was not Yugi. It was a new little boy, this one finding reason to call him Daddy instead of Yami. Yami did not know this boy.
"What is it," he asked, his inquiry affording him no immediate reply.
The silhouette came closer. "Daddy," it said again. "I had a bad dream."
Yami hesitated, unsure of what this boy wanted. His eyes had adjusted and he could now just barely make out Yugi in his pajama pants, pillow in hand, bangs damp with perspiration and clinging to his forehead. He'd shed his shirt some time before.
"I had a bad dream," Yugi repeated, helpless, begging, shivering in his nightmare-induced sweat out here in the cold. "Can I sleep with you?"
Yami's first impulse was to turn him away. It wouldn't be proper, he reasoned, to share a bed with his hikari. But he reminded himself that this boy was only seeking comfort in his father, and that there truly were no indecent connotations about a little boy snuggling away his nighttime fears in the arms of his parents.
The difference was that there was only one parent, and it was Yami. And Yami was not his parent.
"Daddy?"
Yami sighed deeply and said nothing, scooting over in invitation, which the boy picked up on immediately, climbing awkwardly onto the bed to lay on his side. Beside him, Yami covered them both with sheet and blanket, and Yugi buried himself happily in Yami's warmth.
The world receded back into its silence and its slumber, and Yami closely watched his hikari, who was facing him, arms tucked in to his chest, hair tousled, breathing steadily. Yami realized, as he never had before, that Yugi was beautiful. He usually would not think to notice such things, but here in this moment, he looked at his hikari as if he were any person passing him on the street. He imagined he was seeing those features for the first time here in this blue cool light pooling in from the window.
He wiped the innate image he had in his head, and took Yugi in for the first time—thick, long lashes and perfectly arched brows. Heavy lids, small nose, soft lips parted now and revealing a glimpse of straight, white teeth. Slightly oily skin at this hour, giving him a glow—a dangerous luster—the lines of his neck smooth and disappearing under the blanket pulled up to his bare shoulder.
Maybe this was why.
Maybe that asshole—whoever he was—saw this untouched vision of youth, and was moved or jealous or aroused—whatever he happened to be at that moment—Yami didn't know if it was a crime of passion or a desperate assertion of dominance that creep acted out in Yugi. Yami didn't know, but either way, it made him furious that anyone—ANYONE—would look at his little hikari that way—this way—stealing an eager glance at his youthful beauty and wanting it all to himself.
It made him furious. Even to think about it. It made him furious trying to dissect the nature of the man who did this—his motives, his reasons for acting out so inhumanely, so cruelly, in this sensitive little creature. It made Yami furious that anyone would do such a thing to a kid—and not just any kid—his kid, his Yugi.
Yugi sighed in his sleep—a ragged sigh—the kind of sigh that came after a good long cry.
He was helpless in his sleep.
He had been helpless in his resistance against an unknown man behind an empty grocery store.
Yami would never take advantage of his helplessness. He swore to himself that he would never prey upon it. He would do his best to guide Yugi and to instruct him in love, but he would never be presumptuous enough to pretend that he couldn't do anything by himself. Yugi was not retarded. He was just scared.
After several long minutes, Yami put an arm around his son, and he went back to sleep.