Just a pointless little piece about Ryou and Bakura. Okay. I call it pointless. You might not. Ryou is musing on the differences between him and his naughty yami. Largely inspired by a stupid gag gift catalogue I received in the mail. Why I set this to the tune of Jingle Bell Rock – I have no idea. It just happened to be on the radio and... consider it an early Christmas present of sorts.

There is a funny kitty avatar up on my profile page to go with this story. It will be up until at least December 7th, 2009.

You Own Me A Dollar
By: Creature of Habit

I am nothing like him. He is nothing like me. The differences between us could easily fill an entire volume-set of encyclopedias. And there would still be much left to catalogue. The soothing wind chime in his mind failed to mollify his twitching nerves.

He had traveled down to the basement to toss in a load of laundry. It had taken him but five minutes. At the most. Just five little minutes. When would he ever learn? Five minutes was all it ever took. Most times, less than.

Apparently, he, which it had not been, but rather, Bakura, had decided he did not like it when the elderly spinster and the rest of her bridge club had demanded he make himself decent and put a shirt on as he raked up the last of the autumn leaves. To wit, he, that is, his yami, had a better proposal for the blue-rinse brigade. He elected to bedazzle the biddies with his power to turn sunshine into night, as well as speed up the lunar calender.

Yes indeed.

Bakura had mooned a bunch of old ladies.

In the words of the tomb robber, I was merely delivering an object lesson on the true definition of indecent. You see his point. He would have never bared his bottom at a group of elderly women. The shame!

It took Ryou close to half an hour to convince the woman not to phone the police. Then he had to listen to a God only knew how long lecture on how, in her day, young people respected their elders, and young men did not go around exposing what the Dear never intended that the world should see, and... honestly, Ryou had stopped listening by that point. He was much more interested in the bottle of migraine pills upstairs on his nightstand.

oooOoooOoooOooo

Why me? How many times had he asked the heavens this question? Did he ask this same question every day? Far too many, in his humble estimation.

The bathroom smelled divine. It had cost him a pretty penny for the stuff. Oh... but was it worth it. Yes. It was definitely worth it. Climbing into the steaming elixir, Ryou adjusted with a sigh, a pleasantly relaxed smile settling upon his cotton candy lips. Ever one to preserve his modesty, Ryou drew the curtain around the tub.

Oh, my!

To his shock and astonishment, where there had once been a very plain, very normal, blue and white striped cloth curtain, now hung the very tawdry, very provocative, silhouette of a woman on a clear plastic canvas. Ryou honestly had no clue whether she was naked or not, as he had very politely, very appropriately, slapped a hand over his eyes, which were now in dire need of bleaching by the way, but he figured she had to be. Who would hang a silhouette of a clothed woman in their bathroom?

"Bakura!" Their choice in bathroom decor was definitely different.

oooOoooOoooOooo

Cheek pressed to the cool wood of the kitchen table, Ryou watched the tea kettle. Right. A watched pot never boiled. However, reflecting upon the infamous bath episode last week, the one in which he had only remembered after summoning Bakura to take down that terribly lewd curtain that he had used bath oil, and not the usual bubbles, and more than certain that Bakura had premeditated the whole scenario just to sneak a peek at him naked... this was the least of his worries.

We are different. Different. So different. Desperately different.

Their eyes. You see, his eyes were a deep, soft brown. Sweet pools of melted chocolate. The eyes of his yami, in contrast, would best be described as taupe. A dark, greyish shade of brown. The dead earth of an open grave. Well, he was a tomb robber. Only fitting. Not that he did not like those cold, calculating mausoleums, because he did. In fact, the more he pondered this, he really, really, did. He was digressing here. They were different.

Indubitably different. Indisputably, irrevocably different.

Their skin was unique. The deviation was subtle and barely noticeable. But it was there. His skin was creamy porcelain. Milk and pearls. The flesh of his yami was possessed of a more ashen tint. Tombstones and moonbeams. He never said that was a bad thing. In truth, it was quite, well, attractive. That was beside the cushion. He and the ancient spirit were different.

The whistle of the tea kettle ushered in an angelic smile.

Opening the cupboard, he grabbed a mug. Just a random one. He never had been picky about that sort of thing. He did idly wonder when he had acquired the ceramic vessel with the depiction of the fig-leafed Adam and Eve on it. However, as the comforting scent of Earl Grey, with just a tint of orange, tickled his nose, the query was quickly forgotten. Forgotten, that is, until he retook his seat at the table.

Where does he find these things? Ryou clenched his eyes shut as a cherry blush crawled over his cheekbones.

The once leaf-clad Adam and Eve had reverted to what they had been wearing before the whole Original Sin business. The couple on his cup now stood dressed in nothing but their birthday suits. You heard right. Not a stitch of anything. Bare. Nude. In the raw. Naked as... naked mole rats.

"Bakura!" Their taste in dishware could not have been more different.

oooOoooOoooOooo

"I have no idea." Ryou pinched the bridge of his nose. Not the first time. Would not be the last. He tore the phone away from his ear as Malik, on the other end, could be heard screaming at Marik, who could plainly be heard busting a gut.

I told you to get rid of that thing – not hang it on the neighbor's front door, you idiot! Malik yelled.

What had the blonde Egyptian's fur standing on end? Bakura. You see, Bakura had sent the abomination to Marik, who, as one would expect no better of him, had wasted no time in tormenting Malik with it. You could bet Bakura had planned this, too. Malik had demanded Marik get rid of the disgusting thing immediately, meaning the garbage. Marik, capitalizing on the not so specific command, had promptly hung it on the door across the street.

Just what was it? A pair of musical... bosoms. Now, although they were outfitted in a red bra, bikini top, who the hell honestly knew what it was supposed to be, if you set the perverted device on motion detect... let us just say you got an eye-full. Stupidest damn invention ever.

Oh no – did she just slap him? Marik, I swear to Ra, if you cause these people a divorce, so help me...

Their idea of the perfect Christmas gift was also starkly different.

oooOoooOoooOooo

The old neighbor lady was in a war of words with Bakura. Again. And, even though the demented thief was guilty of mooning the poor woman, again, Ryou decided he did not like the way that woman was talking to his yami. Pulling the t-shirt over his head, decisive gleam in chocolate bark eyes, he pushed through the front screen, ignoring the snow that bit at his bare feet.

"Good afternoon, Miss Roberts!" Ryou, never looking more innocent, waved.

As she read the bold print, white lettering scrawled across the black shirt, an angry flush soon turned to pale as dishwater horror. A penny for your thoughts. A dollar if you flash me. The crude article had, naturally, been confiscated from Bakura's closet.

A wicked smirk, tinged with a pride that did anything but escape Ryou, was all the warning the neighbor had, before the tomb robber uttered the dreaded words... "Like I said, an object lesson." December was, as Bakura had decided, a blue moon month.

A flabbergasted huff and the hard slam of a door.

"That was actually kind of..." Ryou, despite his blush, was grinning. Just a little bit.

Bakura glared at the boy from the corner of one eye. "Say it..."

"Exhilarating!"

"That's my boy." A very proud smirk.

oooOoooOoooOooo

Would it be so bad if we were, perhaps, not so different, after all? What does that say about him? What does it say about me? Why does that suddenly not matter to me anymore?

Ryou glared at the boxer shorts. The seat of them was designed to look like a bare butt. That is what Bakura had exposed. All three times. Not his own naked butt. This fake naked butt. He had suffered through humiliation, shame, and a lecture that made him want to stick an ice-pick through his own ears. Because of this rubber cheeked gag butt.

Of course, as soon as the words, no one is allowed the privilege of laying eyes on my delicious derriere but you, had met his ears, all was, strangely, forgiven.

Speaking of the King of Thieves, he had been none too pleased that the cops had decided to let him off with a simple warning. How long had it been since he last sent someone to the Shadow Realm? A month? That itch was about to burn a hole in him. What the (censored) is the point of existing if I can't send random (censored) to the Shadow Realm every once in a while? Is what he had argued.

It had taken three raw steaks to calm him down.

"Couldn't beat 'em, so you decided to join 'em, huh?" Bakura smirked at his, you damn straight, his hikari. Ryou was still wearing the pilfered article, mind you.

"I didn't like her tone." Ryou sighed, plopping down on the bed to watch his, yes his, yami slip the shirt over his pale torso. "Just how many of these do you have, Bakura?" The inscription on this particular shirt read, I have kleptomania, but when it gets bad, I take something for it. Could not have said it better.

"They were having a half-price sale." Velvet graveyards twinkled for a split second before darkening. "Hey, Ryou." A feral smirk before he turned around. This time, it was not the gag butt.

"Bakura!"

"You owe me a dollar."

FIN

I hope you guys got a laugh out of this. I did have a fair amount of fun writing it. When I received this piece of perverted idiocy in the mail – it just screamed Bakura to me. And, yes, every single gag item mentioned in this story is real. Scary, huh? I do like some of the t-shirts, though. I want to get the one that says I'm in my own little world, but it's okay – they know me here.

Still do not know why I can so easily picture Bakura mooning an old lady to the tune of Jingle Bell Rock but... oh well.

Reviews, as always, are much appreciated.