Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh! © Kazuki Takahashi
Author's Note: I started writing this for ygodrabble on Livejournal... and it got carried away and became it's own story. However, this is pretty much a variation of my other story, "Impressionable Youth." And by variation, I mean exactly the same premise. Except, y'know, different. Anyway. Enjoy?

"Dad, what is this stuff?" Atem asked, after he came across an assortment of boxes stuffed into the back corners of the former Kame Game Shop storage room. His dad — on an intent hunt for a tool box he swore up-and-down he used to have (Atem's son wanted to build a motorcycle, and instead of buying tools his dad had insisted they used his) — peered over.

"Oh, those?" he smiled and shrugged. "Probably old games your great-grandfather Sugoroku used to sell. Might be worth something now — collectors are always wanting to get their hands on pre-hologram games. Open them up."

Atem grinned, wondering if that was true. He had no qualms about selling them, either. The special items that had belonged to Great-Grandpa Sugoroku — an old fedora hat, a golden box with the eye of Horus on it and a tattered, torn Blue-Eyes White Dragon card — were in glass case in his father's office. They joined a collection of items that included his father's PhD certificate in archaeology, as well as Atem's degree from Duel Academy and his own degree in archaeology.

He picked up the first box and opened it up but, instead of priceless games, he found something else entirely. Frowning, he looked from an old dog collar, wrist cuffs, two belts lined with silver studs, a pair of navy, shiny pants, a tight-fitting black shirt and a blue jacket with a raised collar. Atem stared at the assortment of clothes and accessories, preserved in a crumpled, plastic sleeve, the air having been removed. Before he could ask, before he could go "Errm, Dad?" something new caught his eye.

It was a photograph, in a glass casing, of a man in the outfit, the only exception being that he was wearing a golden pyramid on a chain necklace. He was smirking, hand on his hip, his blue coat like a cape on his shoulders, golden hair sweeping into red and black. He wasn't looking at the camera, but instead off to his side, his other hand slightly lifted in the air, like he was reaching out to someone to hold their hand.

Atem stared. And stared. It was a picture of his dad from the Battle City tournament — Atem knew this, because he had seen the press photos so many times over the years. But at the same time, it wasn't his father. It couldn't be. It looked nothing like him. But there was something disturbingly familiar about him and Atem's mind flashed to the painting in his father's office. It was of the great Pharaoh in golden jewelry, white linens, his blue cloak swirling off his shoulders. He was the Pharaoh that Atem had been named after, the subject of his father's research and books for as long as Atem could remember. The Pharaoh that his father sometimes spoke to, an odd thing that Atem's mother, Uncle Jounouchi, Uncle Honda and Aunt Anzu dismissed as "something your dad has always done" or, for short, "quirks."

But why did he, a Pharaoh in a painting, and this man in an old, old photograph, look so much alike?

"I found it!"

Atem jumped, looking over at his father with the toolbox in hand. His dad waved it around with a smile. "So what did you find over there, Atem? Any games?"

"D-Dad," Atem stammered, and he showed him the photograph. "You didn't have a twin brother you never told me about, did you?"

"No," his father said with a soft laugh, pushing his gray hair out of his face as he walked over. "What are you looking at...?"

He paused when he saw the open box, his violet eyes flickering over the outfit and the picture in Atem's hand. Atem frowned as a familiar expression crossed his father's face — something akin to longing, Atem had always thought — before he chuckled. "That's me, Atem. That's my old dueling outfit. That's a picture from when I won the Battle City tournament."

"What?" Atem cried, looking back at the photograph. "This can't be you, Dad. Look at this man! He looks like—"

He hesitated. Did he really want to say that this man looked like a 3,000-year-old Pharaoh in a painting his father had? "I mean, he looks like you, but—"

"I can't believe I let him dress us like this," his dad mumbled, lifting the outfit out of the box. Atem swiveled his head around — had his father just said...?

"What?"

"I said, I can't believe I used to dress like this," his dad repeated with a smile. "It's a good thing I preserved this. Who knows what moths would have done to the jacket."

Atem glanced at the photo again and then back at his father. While the man in the photograph was clearly not his father (and yet, it was), it did seem odd that his dad would save an old outfit. His father, after all, had trophies from his reign as King of Games, and his first deck and a book devoted entirely to newspaper clippings. "Why did you?" he asked.

His father traced fingers down the plastic, his smile fond. "It was all I had left from that time," he murmured, closing his eyes briefly. Then, he chuckled and looked to his son. "This, and that picture. Ah, Atem, your face... Just put this under the 'quirks' folder you and your mother have."

Atem struggled to understand — why was an outfit and an old picture all his father had left of his gaming career, when he had trophies and his deck and other items displayed prominently in his office? "What do you mean, Dad?"

His dad smiled. It was a tired smile. "There was a time, Atem, when it seemed appropriate to lock away certain memories in a box. Ironic, in hindsight, but... Anyway, I thought I misplaced these things. Thank you for finding them, Atem."

"But Dad—" Atem protested as his dad took the photo from him, placing them both back into the box. He tucked the box under his arm and moved to stand, stopping when Atem caught his arm. "Dad, that man, he looks like—"

"Ah, Atem, I found the toolbox," his father said with a twinkle in his eye. "Shogi can't build that motorcycle without it, right? And without his motorcycle, he can't play the game the Mutous are famous for."

Atem wasn't stupid — he knew his father was trying to distract him from the topic at hand. He did the same thing when Atem caught him talking to the Pharaoh, or when he found him staring at the Pharaoh's portrait for what seemed like hours. That meant his father knew the man in the photograph didn't really look like him, and... Atem frowned. If that was true, then—

"Quirks," his dad said playfully, knocking him on the head. "All right?"

Atem flushed — his father was great at reading his thoughts — before he sighed. There were too many quirks in his father's life and, coincidentally enough, they all revolved around the Pharaoh. Atem blinked then, his heart hammering wildly and his mind clicking together like two puzzle pieces. All of it, all of it, revolved around the Pharaoh—

Somewhere, deep in the back of his mind, something was triggered: It was said that whomever solved the puzzle inherited the will of the Pharaoh. Yes, yes, that was something his dad had written about the Pharaoh and the Millennium items! His father had once told him how he had solved the Millennium puzzle, which had spurred his passion for finding its origins, and that was how he had discovered Pharaoh Atem and—

His father knocked him on the head again. "Atem. Shogi. Motorcycles. Card games. Toolbox. Let's go."

"Dad—" Atem said, slightly alarmed. Because, if he was really thinking what he was thinking, he had every reason to be alarmed. "Dad. The Pharaoh, you, the puzzle—"

His dad sighed, but he seemed amused, placing his hand on his hip. "Yes, Atem?"

Atem hesitated, because what he was thinking was impossible. His father and the Pharaoh couldn't be connected by something other than his father's obsessive research and a Millennium puzzle they both had owned. He had, after all, written countless books about Atem, had discovered Atem, had a portrait painted of Atem, had an entire branch of Egyptian history named after the Pharaoh's era, named his only son after him... And even if things like a photograph of a man who looked like the Pharaoh (and yet like his father) said otherwise, what he was thinking was impossible.

"Quirks!" his dad said with a wave of his hand and swooped the toolbox into his hand before he headed back to the main room. "C'mon, Atem. That motorcycle won't build itself!"

Atem swallowed, his heart still hammering wildly, his mind still thinking of the ridiculous things. But there were a lot of strange things about his father and Atem knew this. But this truly took the cake in the 'strange-and-plausible-but-impossible-quirks-my-father-has' category. He wasn't happy with how he had to sum that up, especially when his mind screamed otherwise, but that was the only explanation that made sense. Except...

"This isn't coincidence, is it, Dad," he said, because Atem wasn't stupid — he knew his dad knew what he was thinking and the fact that he had immediately thrown it into the 'quirks' category was just another way of changing the subject. And he did that a lot when it came to the Pharaoh. All the time, in fact.

His dad smiled and Atem could have read so much into that smile. It wasn't a yes, it wasn't a no, and it was a mixture of pride for Atem and the fond expression he always had when he looked at that Pharaoh. But then it was gone, replaced by his dad's usual, amused smile.

"C'mon, Atem," he said, "Motorcycles and card games. Let's go."

Atem had to struggle not to ask again, glaring halfheartedly at his father. He walked over and his dad patted him on the back with another smile, before they entered the main house. Shogi was ecstatic to see them, running over to get the toolbox, his wild blond-black-and-red hair pushed back by goggles. "All right!" he cried, picking up a wrench. "Now we can build my motorcycle!"

They got to work, his father tinkering away with the duel disk system while Atem and Shogi worked on the engine. They became so involved in their work that Atem almost didn't notice his father stepping out, carrying his box with him. Frowning, Atem gave his son the tool he was working on and followed after him, knowing exactly where he was going.

As he had thought, his father was in his study and he had placed the outfit and photograph under the portrait of his Pharaoh. He was talking to him, and Atem pressed against the wall to stay hidden, straining to hear.

"—found your old outfit and photo," his father was saying. "Atem easily put two-and-two together. He's a smart one, your namesake. Like you were, eh, other me?"

Atem frowned. Other me? Is that what his father had said? Atem wasn't sure and he didn't have time to think it over, jumping when his father said out loud, "Quirks, son. Just quirks. You wouldn't believe me otherwise."

He stepped from the doorway. "You could try me, Dad?" It couldn't be too far-fetched from what he was thinking now, after all.

His father smiled, glancing at the portrait and then back at his son. "Well... Maybe one day. Let's just call it quirks for now, all right?"

Atem nodded as he walked up to his dad, knowing how close to a 'yes, it isn't a coincidence' that reply was. "All right," he whispered, making his dad smile and together they both looked up at his father's Pharaoh as well as the photograph underneath of the man that looked both like the Pharaoh and his father. Quirks, Atem thought with a smile. Just quirks.