Galatea, a yu-gi-oh fanfic

galatea
yuugiou fanfiction
ryuujitsu & co.

Disclaimer: Saying we own Yuugiou is like saying Zeus is the goddess of the hearth. He most certainly is not, the philandering bastard.

A/N: Stress breeds plot bunnies. It was begging to be let out, so I put the micro textbook away for a while. If you dislike 2nd person, run away.

It's that boy again, coming up the stairs. He's got a bag of groceries on one arm and a bag of something else on the other, something heavy that stretches the plastic. It's twilight, cold for September, and he fumbles inexpertly for his key (you hear the click-click-clatter), fondles the doorknob with those weighted clammy hands, and goes in. There is a crash as he drops his things, then the door shuts quietly behind him.

You wait a moment, but he does not turn on the lights.

It is late in the afternoon, five o'clock you think, and across the courtyard you can still hear it (perpetual sawing, like something out of a horror movie, like a serrated blade across bones), just like you've been hearing it for the past week even though you've asked already that he keep it quiet. You're fed up and you climb out of bed from where you've been trying to rest off the migraine; you slip off your slippers and slide into your shoes, and you head across the catwalk and knock on his door. When there's no answer you give the wood a full palm slap, then drum it with the heel of your hand, and you wonder where his parents are.

The electric hum grinds to an end. He is covered in sawdust when he opens the door; the fine brown powder has settled on his hair and shoulders like a veil. His eyes are red where they should be white and alarmingly green around the pupil, and the pupil is like a single sunspot in all that star-bright intensity. Sawdust cakes the creases of his mouth, too, lightening the color there and drying it out.

Yes, he says, the tone muffled, like a bell choked by dust. Yes?

You look past his shoulder into the living room and see newspapers spread across the floor and small pieces of wood curling here and there like pencil shavings and fallen leaves.

You tell him that you have a headache, that you've asked before; the walls are thin and you're sure the other tenants have complained too—oh, yes, he says absentmindedly, and oh, I'm sorry, I'll do it by hand, then. Do what by hand, you say sharply, and his eyes curve into brilliant green crescents and he smiles at you, little-boy winsome:

Oh, it's a project of mine; I'm making something.

It is warm the next morning and he sits outside on the steps, near the railing. He is whittling at a long piece of unvarnished wood with a pocketknife, scratching gently at both ends, rounding them.

After that you don't see him for another three weeks and you think he's moved out until you see him quietly shutting his door and hurrying to the street one day, a pale thin shape that becomes lost in the white-wash of the building and the snow just beyond as soon as it leaves the black iron of the stairs.

There's a girl waiting outside his door when you come home. She looks like she's been sitting there a while, on the concrete, feet akimbo, knees pressed together with her school bag between them; good thing because her skirt is so short, you think. She has her head against his door: a mousy brown head with the hair cut short; it is probably dyed. Her left hand, palm up, curls loosely around a pink cell phone. She notices you watching and smiles, wanly, before returning her gaze to that narrow strip of sky beyond the roof. For the briefest moment you wonder.

You go inside and unload your groceries and leave the fish balls out to thaw; when you glance out your window a few minutes later, she is gone. Maybe she has been invited in, but somehow you doubt it. You put the kettle on the stove.

Mrs. Hayashi from the apartment two floors below comes to visit. She is young, with rare purple eyes and a girlish smile and a husband in marketing. She laughs nervously when you mention the boy in passing. Ah, him, she says.

It is the first time he has really spoken to you: Do you like brown eyes, Ogawa-san?

You turn to look at him, school-boy eager with a brown paper bag of something in his arms, waiting for your answer. In the sunlight, his eyes are pale, the irises glistening; the green of them shines out, brighter than the glare. You aren't sure what to say; he is really so strange. If he were larger he might be even be frightening, but he's much too small—he reminds you of the onnagata you saw when you were a girl, clutching at your father's sleeve. . .

That hadn't been a love-suicide, you remember, and that surprises you, because there were so many that ended that way.

Yes, he says, interrupting the memory of the painted white face creasing into a song, I think brown is nice; brown—fits in. But it's boring, and—ah, am I keeping you? I'm sorry.

You come home from Mrs. Hayashi's house-warming party with your heels dangling from one finger; there is an old tired ache in your feet, the good kind. Cold dances through the shawl around your shoulders and brushes past the backs of your knees. As you raise yourself past the final step, you notice the lights are on in his window, and you can't help it—the bridges of your feet creak and then you're standing just outside the glass, peering in with frost on your breath.

He is seated at the kitchen table, a profile view, and you catch his quick delighted smile and follow his gaze downward –

He is bent over a skull, a human skull (the wind flares for a moment, whips away your gasp and swallows it in a howl), holding it intimately, with his knees pressed tight together beneath it, cradling it close to his chest like a lover. One hand cups the cheek while the other grafts in eyelashes with a pair of tweezers, spiky white bits of hair that look as though they've been cut from his own head. The eye sockets are hollow and sunken and you know he's made this head from clay; you've watched him, watched his progress over these many months, molding and shaping it, but the way he's moved his hand to the jaw now, so tenderly, still grafting, you aren't sure—in that yellow glow of the kitchen light there's a softness to the cheek that you've only just noticed, a softness that curves into unsmiling lips and vanishes—what a hard mouth!

You think that at any moment he will look up and see you; he has to, he must, but the head has him captivated. You can almost hear his breath as it races past his own parted lips, impatient and uneven, and you can hear the steady murmur of his heart against your own ribs and feel the faint tremor in his fingertips in your own as you press them against the cool glass of his window.

The doll is almost finished, you notice one day. It sits neatly in a chair by the kitchen window, wearing a white sweater and blue jeans and a sweet and dreadful smile.

He comes into the kitchen. He looks tired, blue around the mouth; he's cut his hair close to his head and his ears look small and naked. There are paint samples spread across his table: brown, brown, brown. He stacks them neatly—and knocks them to the floor. He turns to the doll. He is so close he should see you; he doesn't. He kisses the doll's temple, above the ear, through the human hair—his own hair.

Through the window you hear him, a mumble. I'm sorry—a delay, I'm sorry—give me more time—

Mrs. Hayashi comes to visit. Oh, how clean, she says, and there comes a knock—not at your door, but your window. The boy, you think.

The girl smells of grease; there is a livid burn across the hand she holds to your windowpane. Her hair is longer but still brown. Her skirt is shorter than ever; how cold she must be!

You motion to the door and she meets you there.

"What do you want?" The cold is in your bones. If you'd had children you would have wrapped them up more warmly in winter. It will snow later this evening; her coat does not even come to her hips; she has no gloves. This girl has no sense.

Her lips are shivering. "You are—you are Bakura-kun's neighbor—"

"Oh!" says Mrs. Hayashi, from behind you. Nosy thing; she's already bulging. Her eyes widen, purple, shining like river stones. "Ogawa-san! This girl will freeze if we keep her out like this! Come in, come in; drink something warm!"

"It's all right," she says, and now her teeth are chattering. "B-but Bakura-kun has not been to school in two months—we—Yuugi—we are all very worried about him! Does he still live in this—"

You pull at the door until the hinge squeals. "Come in."

The boy answers the door fumbling at his shirt. He's put the second button in the fourth hole, you see, and hasn't even noticed, he's in such a hurry to get it on.

"Oh, oh!" he says. "Ogawa-san."

You hold up a plastic bag. "I've brought you a melon."

Mazaki Anzu jumped to the edge of your sofa when you asked your question. What kind of person is Bakura-kun? Um, well, I can't really say—he's very kind and soft and loves sweets, especially melon-flavored things! I'm sure that says he's really very gentle—

You aren't one for sweets, you think. Artificial flavoring is bad for the body; a melon is far better. But you can see this one walking on the street, his mouth candy-sticky, his hand sorting through a paper pouch of chocolates or gummies.

He turns pink. "Um—that's—well, thank you—" He reaches for the bag and you keep it just out of his reach.

"I heard you live by yourself," you say.

He stares. "Yuugi-kun came!"

Yuugi? An odd name. "No, a girl," you say, and you swallow hard when the green eyes flash. The boy's shoulders slump. Once his eyes have turned from you, you continue: "Mazaki Anzu. She came before, some weeks ago. They are worried about you—you haven't been to school in months, they say? Bakura-kun, do your parents know?" You can't be delicate; you can only be angry. Mrs. Hayashi is afraid of this one, but you see him as he is: a boy, all alone.

His mouth twists. "My father," he begins, and falters. He spins on his heels so that his back is to you and says, clear and firm, "Yes—yes, they know. I have taken a leave of absence. You can tell Mazaki-san that."

"You can tell her yourself when she comes next week," you say, following him to the kitchen. His living room is small and cluttered, dimly lit. Wood shavings crunch under your feet as you pass through. "I told her I would speak to you, just this once."

He is not looking at you. His face is smooth and pretty, girlish—you look at the curve of his cheek and think you can understand this Anzu, who comes seeking him. Surely an infatuation. "Yes," he says suddenly. "Thank you for the melon."

His eyes are lidded when he grasps the bag. The plastic crackles.

"You're welcome," you say. "You don't look like you're eating well, living alone like this—"

"I'm not—" He meets your eyes now. His stare is bright; the green takes you by surprise, as it always does. His smile is strange. "I'm not alone, Ogawa-san."

You see it—store-bought pan, tied with red ribbon and set at the center of the table. The glaze is honey-gold in the light from the window.

He follows your gaze and starts to chirp: Ah, those—melon pan! Hayashi-san brought those. She was with you when Mazaki-san came, I guess. Maybe she feels as you do. But I'm embarrassed. . .

He sets the melon on the table, beside the pan, and a voice comes from another room, loud and hoarse. "Idiot! What are you doing?"

The boy's smile crumbles and he goes white from his hair to the rumpled collar of his shirt. He stares at you a bit like a rabbit; then his eyes dart left. His hands have gone slack; the melon rolls about but does not fall.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry, uh. . .my cousin—he's a bit—"

You tell him you'll let yourself out, and Don't worry your friends.

He nods frantically. "Oh, thank you—don't bother about the door—yes, thank you for bringing news—the melon—" He does not watch you go. You hear the tap-tap of his slippers as he scampers off.

You take an absurd amount of time with your shoes and coat—tying the laces up properly, keeping your hands slow with your buttons. You pull your heel out and kick it back down, as silently as possible, and you listen.

The boy seems to be arguing; the other voice comes again and again—then quiet, a creak, and three sharp moans.

I've known Bakura-kun a very long time! We met in junior high. He's from England, you know? Maybe their school system is different. But it isn't like him to miss so much school. We are all very worried!

Oh, awful! Mrs. Hayashi says. Her hands are clasped tightly around her teacup; her eyes are so wide you can see the flecks in the purple, golden things. Maybe he's been ill? You haven't seen him in weeks?

The girl tries to smile; the tremble in her chin gives her away. I hope not, she says. He lives all by himself. I think Bakura-kun is so used to living alone that he forgets about us, sometimes!

If you'd been sensible you would have gone then and closed the door behind you; gone and had something hot to drink and forgotten about it. What you do instead is something young and stupid: you remove your shoes again and follow the sound.

The apartment is large—bigger than yours. A rich father, then; no high school student could afford this: furniture, a television, six rooms. The hallway is darkened; you keep a hand to the wall and wince when things squeak and crack underfoot.

You expect the bedroom door ajar and a sliver of light peeking into the hall; you expect to put your eye to a keyhole; instead the corridor is bright. The door has been thrown back against the wall and is creeping slowly shut. You hold it open carefully and quietly with a toe and look in.

You see the shirt first, discarded on the floor and missing buttons. The bed is four-poster, very fine, of dark wood, the sheets gleaming pale blue. Above them a body lies shuddering, thin and white, the legs splayed apart. The boy. The bones are distinct; he is breathing fast and shallow. You imagine the green glow of his stare.

The man who leans over him wears a white sweater. A circle of hot, gleaming gold clicks and shivers around his neck. He is fumbling with his jeans; there is something tied over his eyes.

The boy's arms stretch upward, fingers spread and seeking. Here, he moans, I'm right here, feel me—yes, do it, hurry quick—oh!

Your ears feel hot as you leave. (Clip! goes the door.) You are unlocking your own door when you realize, with a bit of disappointment, you did not see the doll—not in the kitchen or anywhere else. You wonder for a moment where he could have put it. It would have been nice to see it finished.

The next week the Mazaki girl comes when you are at your window, washing greens for dinner. She is wearing her school uniform, carrying her books; whatever she sees leaves her pale and trembling. You wonder if she walked in on something. She probably hadn't known.

You walk her to the stairwell and tell her there will be others.

Her eyes are round as she stares at you. Thank you, she says finally. But I think I will still come.

If she does, you do not see her. A week later there are boys outside Bakura's door, school uniforms stiff to their necks. They bang and shout until you come out with your frying pan and tell them to go away.

Two weeks later you hear Mrs. Hayashi, hugely pregnant, has gone missing. Run away, whisper the women two stories below: Run away and the baby wasn't his to begin with. Even better—twins! One his, one the other man's!

Four months more and the husband is gone back to Nagoya. Police suspicion follows him, but you don't hear anything more about it, after that.

One Tuesday in spring you see Bakura carrying out his garbage and stop him a moment—just a moment. His cousin's gone home to Chiba Prefecture, he says, and dinner on Thursday sounds wonderful.

4 June – Blueprints, if that is what I should call them, are done. Nervous about it, can't be helped. Yuugi asked me over; no use. Feel compelled. Must.

5 June – Bought supplies today, some tools and nice lightweight metal for the structure: sturdy enough but not so sturdy that I won't be able to snap or bend or break them if I have to. Or melt, even; yes, it's all flammable. . .

Mrs. O— from Apartment 23 disturbed by the noise; can't help it, shall have to switch to wood, whittle.

10 August – Have been working nonstop. Sleepy. Woman named Hayashi came to visit, newlywed and all. Such pretty eyes! Like a doll really.

19 October – Got white silk, white like bone; exactly what he said he wanted. I'm so glad. Stitched it on smoothly; all is going well. By winter. . .yes. Mrs. O— spying on me. Maybe she works for the government. Or for Shaadi oh this is a bloody stupid thing to do! but if I manage it. . .

24 October – Head finished; perhaps too feminine. Ah tired; saw Yuugi-tachi downtown today, managed to avoid them. Grown apart I suppose, should have asked where Yuugi is going to university: Kyoto I imagine.

15 November – Shizuka has nice eyes, but oh I couldn't, I just couldn't
15 November – Saw Anzu, didn't open the door. Soon, soon, O Kami God Re Atem soon.

17 November – I DID IT !!!! God god he's beautiful

9 December – Hurting all over and grinning like a fool. Didn't have the strength to write before. Brilliant success. Ryou you old dog.

And they haven't forgotten me after all! Mrs. Hayashi came to visit, sweet lovely stupid woman! Got melon from Mrs. O, too. Less stupid, that one. Maybe she is warming up to me.

20 December – I can't go BACK—can't they get it through their heads! I'm on to better things and I was right, it's Kyoto after all, the four of them. Together forever! I want to scream at them. No one is really looking at Yuugi-kun—pretending he's not in pieces. They're all idiots and only Kaiba sees it and he's leaving for America.

I'm the smart one this time with what I did—it was right, what I did. Yuugi-kun is in pieces and I'm not. I feel silly and vindictive but now I know I'm RIGHT about this. And I'm happy and I'm whole GOD IT'S BRILLIANT.

21 December – now for the rest !!
22 December, 5am – Man Eater Bug—so handy. I'm rotten. Burn everything, that's what I should do, and leave and start over

In the end it was quiet. It's usually quiet. Scooping motion and she didn't see it coming and the transfer was so easy. And no one will know for a week at least
I should go; he's waiting watching

I did this I made him

It is full summer when you see the boy again. He is walking up the stairs with his hands in his pockets. You think you've seen those jeans before—in a magazine or on a billboard. His hair has grown long. He smiles at you and the sun catches his eyes, so green.

Hello, Ogawa-san!

Unbidden, your mouth opens. I have some fruit—peaches—if you want.

He comes into your kitchen to take them; you remember you haven't washed them yet and twist at the faucet. On the third peach, which is softer than you would have liked, your spine prickles and you look up.

You choke your gasp just in time and go on rinsing the peaches, but your gaze does not waver. The doll is propped up in the opposite window, staring at you with empty eyes—ah, no, not the doll; the doll is gone. It's a man, another boy. A school friend? or—the man from the bedroom? Yes, his Chiba cousin.

His face is cold as he watches you. His eyes are perfectly purple, the pupils ringed with gold.

A/N: Heh, it's been a while. I started this nearly seven months ago and put it on the backburner. Hope you liked it! And that it made sense! Probably I made it too obvious. . .

A big apology (yet again!) to all of you who read Faust! Long story short, Faust is not exactly dead, but other ideas have me in their grip at the moment. I will post more when I can. I'll be done with it soon, college willing.

In the meantime, I'm writing original fic—about necromancers and such.

Thanks for reading!