Yu-Gi-Oh is the property of Konami and Kazuki Takahashi, and this work is only a very appreciative celebration, from which we hope to derive no profit of any kind.

Paris days were cold, in early January; the same wind that blew the clouds away, seemed to find all the places where one's garments ended, where coat-sleeves met gloves, and where there were gaps between the buttons of one's overcoat. And god forbid one should miss getting one's scarf tucked completely into one's coat-collar, because the wind was sure to find the exposed end, and pull the whole thing loose, and then what was the point of wearing it at all?

Here at La Palette though, a charcoal brazier kept the terrace warm, and Pegasus, sitting near it, was quite comfortable, as long as he angled his body right (three-quarters turned toward the heat source, and only one-quarter faced to look out and watch the world go by on the Rue de la Seine). It was four PM. He had a glass of Pernod sitting at his elbow. it was a little early, true, but that was what one did in Paris, one drank. In a little while, if the scene kept his interest, he might order a snack or another glass of liqueur. Or perhaps he'd get up and leave; his days were so empty, and so long, now that he didn't have Yami with him.

Pegasus stared into the distance, but he wasn't seeing the tracery of leafless trees against the horizon; he wasn't seeing the busy people passing by along the street. Yami had said good-bye to him alone, well, as alone as his ex-partner seemed to be capable of being these days. He'd said good-bye with just Yuugi present, and the two had been arm-in-arm, meshed together like they'd die if they let go of each other for a moment. It was because they couldn't touch each other when Yuugi's parents were in the room, - Or anyone else for that matter; the success of their relationship depended on their pretense that Yami was Donald, Yuugi's long-lost brother, and that there was nothing between them except for normal brotherly fondness. – Pegasus understood that, and he tried to make allowances, but still it was depressing (and faintly creepy as well) to see his partner turn away from the con, and rush into the arms of someone who couldn't even acknowledge him in public.

"If you ever need anything,"

And "if you're ever back in Scotland," – Yami and Yuugi had spoken together.

And Pegasus had pooh-poohed both of them. Oh no, no, no, Scotland? Nasty, cold place, and the drear, boring life of a family closed up on its little estate. He was off to warmer climes and more exciting places. And as for needing anything? Please! Didn't he still have the con? Wasn't he past master at pretense?

He didn't need anything either. Just since he'd been here in Paris – Just the past almost-two weeks that he'd been staying in the same suite at the Ritz that he'd shared with Yami back in November, he'd already found two very lucrative jobs. Short jobs, they'd been, and rather boring, just convincing a couple of rich fatheads with more money than sense, that he had a business opportunity they wanted to join. It was the kind of thing he and Yami used to do in their spare time.

Spare time. That was the thing. And why did he have so much more of it, now that Yami was gone? Pegasus stared out over the terrace. He watched the men and women hurrying by, all bundled up to keep the cold wind out. Why should the loss of one little street-Arab matter so much to him? Had he really thought Yami would stay with him for the rest of his life? He'd started out alone, and he'd done just fine. He would do just fine now as well. - Better even, without Yami's inconvenient attacks of romantic passion.

Pegasus looked at the empty glass beside him, and considered ordering another Pernod. But it was nasty, slimy stuff, all greenish and milky, and tasting like licorice, more like a cough mixture than any kind of proper drink. He raised his eyes, staring out over the terrace. The passers-by moved quickly, hurrying through the cold streets, stopping only to make purchases from the hot-chestnut vendor on the corner. Even the streetwalkers didn't look like much, bundled into threadbare coats to keep out the wind, with only the hems of their gaudy dresses, and an occasional flash of ankle showing as they moved. Had Paris really always been this uninteresting?

Then a flash of glitter caught his eye. He saw a boy, a skinny boy, a little taller than average for a street-child, but a boy probably no more than ten or twelve years old: He was behind a portly gentleman in a long overcoat, and, what caught Pegasus' attention was the glint of the old man's watch, as the boy took it from his pocket. He watched, amused by the boy's skill, the economy of his motions. There was just the slightest added movement, as the boy slid the watch into the pocket of his own, threadbare trench-coat, a rag, much too large for him, but with a flare to the coattails that had its own distinctive style. Then, as if sensing that he'd been seen, he turned, and Pegasus met a pair of eyes, startlingly blue under the uncombed fringe of his brown hair.

"Salle Anglais." They were cold eyes, with a look of arrogance in them that was amusing in such a small boy. "Are you going to tell him? Do you think I care?"

Pegasus laughed. No, he wasn't going to tell. He and the street-boy were in the same profession, weren't they? He thought of Yami, who'd been a ragged street-child like this once as well. And this boy had the same light, skillful hands. "On the contrary." He stood, fumbling a handful of francs to wave at the boy. "I want to talk to you."

"Stupide," the boy called back. He turned, darting between two passers-by and sped away. "Je m'en fiche, something something..." floated back as he fled, and Pegasus found himself giving chase. Life was starting to get interesting again.