Chapter Text
001.
A little girl stands at the corner a few blocks down from where you work.
Rain or shine, you can find her at the curb, rocking back and forth on her heels, playing with the hem of her white summer dress, clutching tightly onto a straw hat adorned with flowers. ( always in bloom, fresh cut from a mother’s garden. chrysanthemums bleached white like the dead. )
She’s waiting, she tells you, with the sweet voice of a child who hasn’t yet tasted how bitter this world can be. The naivety is a weakness, you think, each day you pass her by. But because you are weak too, sometimes you’ll take her too small, too cold hand in your own and wait with her.
002.
It begins like this: Two boys walk into a café. One orders a drink.
You’re distracted, preoccupied with the steady stream of customers, overlooking important details in favor of churning out orders. An iced mocha cappuccino to pull a haggard college student through what looks like an all-nighter. A milk tea for a mother and a hot chocolate for the eager son by her side. An iced coffee for a boy with crazy hair accompanied by his looming older brother speaking in hushed baritone who has yet to order.
“And anything for you, sir?” You ask, turning, and it begins like this: with your mistake. The curve to your lips freezes like a mask when wide, violet eyes meet your own, and you find yourself bathed in the chill of the dead. You don’t see him as much as you see through him— the young man is translucent, a visual echo of the solid original, who, from the corner of your eyes, looks to be just as surprised as the ghost before you.
“You can see me?” Says the dead kid.
“You can see him?” Says the living kid at the same time.
“Oh shit,” Says you, eloquent as always, sealing your doom.
003.
It's staring.
You resist the urge fidget under the ghost’s gaze. You're used to being stared at, from small glances of barely-concealed curiosity to rude, open gaping, but this is different. You know this look. That empty chill is identical even with a hundred different faces wearing it, dull and dead eyes with sharp, feral edges. The stare of a dead man.
“A picture would last longer,” You snap, and though it doesn’t seem to catch the meaning the ghost bristles at your dismissive tone nonetheless. Indignation grants it vibrancy, a furious glare that sparkles with vigor, and he seems more like a man and less like a shadow, now. ( and like that, life is returned to the dead. ) Which is an equal part disconcerting and comforting, considering how most angry spirits are generally… unpleasant, to say the least. The side of your face throbs like an old wound at the thought.
“Come on, Yami,” And there pipes up the smaller boy, the reason you’re here, sitting in one of the back corners of the café on a break meant for catching up on precious sleep. You had initially planned to ignore them entirely, forged a resolution with an iron will to avoid the no-doubt convoluted mess that was these two’s tragic tale, but one desperate, pleading stare from bright eyes eroded your indifference to rust. You hate him, hate his unusual hair and hate his nervous smile as he attempts to placate his companion and you definitely hate your complete inability to actually hate him. He's too fluffy, goddamn it. ( God, you’ve been sitting here staring down this dumb ghost for a minute and you’re already exhausted— )
“So you’re called Yami?” The ghost stiffens at your question, clearly unused to being heard, much less addressed, by anyone other than his living twin ( Motou Yugi, the smaller is called, but please, call him Yugi, because apparently friendship is a thing that’s going to happen ) but manages to shape his expression into something composed and regal, domineering in silent threat. He holds it for about ten seconds before you toss a crumpled napkin through his see-through body and he practically shrieks, much to your impish delight. “Weird name. Yugi and Yami Mutou, huh? What are you, the dead brother?“
“He’s not my brother, exactly,” Yugi replies for him, looking hesitant, glancing over at his ghost. “He’s my…” He stops, the right term apparently escaping him, and as the silence grows, so does the feeling that perhaps this might be a little more complicated than you’re comfortable with. “... my… other half?” The blank confusion must be clearly visible on your features because he cringes slightly before continuing. “It’s kind of a long story.”
You silently put your head in your hands. You really don't want to know.
004.
It’s like this: no matter how weird or terrifying something might actually be, the more you’re exposed to it, the more you adjust to it. Even the threat of death, as a constant, becomes somehow less than. When you were little and used to stay up past your bedtime watching kaijū films with your older brother, you figured that it was only a matter of time before people stopped screaming and hiding and started factoring in giant monster fights into their daily schedules. People wouldn't exactly be any less terrified of Godzilla stomping on them, but eventually, they’d have to get their shit together and go about their lives.
The world doesn’t stop. Not for anyone.
Your father liked to say that.
“People live n’ die in all manner of wonderful n’ horrible ways,” He had told you with kind eyes and kinder smiles as he held your hand at the funeral, “but the world don’t stop spinnin’ none.”
You remember a lot of things about that day. The cold sensation of ashen fingers clutching yours. Hot tears in your eyes and crying for the wrong reasons. A man gone from your life and yet still there, a hole in your heart on alternating days. And in the years that pass, amidst whatever wonderful joys and terrible nightmares your so-called power gives you, you reflect back on those words and wonder if they were a gift or a curse.
( it's a bit of both, really. )
005.
It’s at lunch on the Tuesday after you first meet that Yami threatens to kill you.
“If you hurt him, I will tear you to pieces.” He speaks as if his word was law, an absolute like the fundamental forces of the universe. He's probably been wanting to say it for a bit now; it's become clear that you and Yami are like oil and water, unable to have a conversation without thinly veiled threats ( courtesy of Yami ) or outright insults ( courtesy of you ). It leaves Yugi as the soap of the relationship, desperately trying to mix you two together, ( perhaps you two are more fire and gasoline, and Yugi's fire extinguisher is a bit too small ) but with Yugi indisposed in the bathroom, there's no one to play negotiator.
“Alright,” You say, taking a few fries from Yugi's tray because he's not here to pout about it. ( five hundred yen says Yami tattles anyway. ) This shouldn't be comforting— being threatened by someone who means every word of it should be the farthest thing from comforting. But nevertheless, you feel at ease. This exchange is something you understand— violent tempests and vengeful spirits are far more up your alley than having a burger with a teenager and his pet ghost that he insists needs a social life. You glance up to see violet eyes wide with surprise at your easy answer, and your lips quirk into a small smile. “But, the minute your crazy poltergeist shit bothers him more than I’m comfortable with, I’ll rip you out of his body and burn you to spectral ash faster than you can cross the streams.”
There's a stretch of silence after your own threat, a staredown that makes you wish for spurred cowboy boots and a holstered revolver for you to hover your hand over. Perhaps he's waiting for you to look away first, you're not sure, but you're sure as hell not going to back down regardless. You take another fry from Yugi's plate and arch a single brow, daring him to respond. More silence. ( can you blink? does blinking me you'll lose? maybe if you do it slowly... )
“I have no idea what that last part meant,” He says eventually, finger tapping lips with solemn consideration, and you snort with surprised laughter, “But I’ll consider it a deal.”
"Awesome." Nonchalant acceptance was not what you were expecting, but it's definitely a favorable result. Something stirs within you, a sort of bland cousin to hope. Perhaps this is the moment where you two move past your petty differences and manage to hold an actual conversation? Could it be?
But when Yugi returns to the table, the first thing Yami does is snitch on you about the fries. So no, apparently you're still going to antagonize each other. Of course the ghost makes a big deal about the whole fries thing, and of course you apologize, and of course Yami settles into that state of smug satisfaction that he gets when he looks down you. His victory is a pyrrhic one, though, because Yugi's the kind of guy who would give his clothes to a homeless guy if he was asked, so of course he doesn't mind you taking his fries, you can even have some more if you want. ( and you do want. )
You make sure to stare Yami down as you eat them.
( even when it's salty, victory is sweet. )
006.
Yugi can't see ghosts.
He can see Yami, and that's different— the two are connected, bonded in a way that transcends haunting or possession, their souls laced together. His other half, Yugi says, and if it wasn't for the goosebumps on your flesh and the stale air in your nostrils that tastes like death you'd be inclined to agree. But no, Yami's a ghost, the lingering soul of the dearly departed, and that means he shouldn't be here. You tell them both that much and almost regret it, seeing Yugi's eyes widen with absolute devastation, seeing the ever-so stoic spirit turn vulnerable with numb confusion. It's like you told them he was going to die— which is ridiculous because he's already dead.
"Don't give me that look." Something cold and ugly in the base of your throat sharpens your words. But Yugi is a warm, gentle thing, so you bury it deep before you continue. "He's not going to vanish on you suddenly, if that's what you're worried about. If the dead stay, they stay for a reason."
Of course, none of you know what that reason is, because of course, Yami has no memory of who or what he was when he was alive. He doesn't even remember what he was doing a few months ago. Or anything before he met Yugi. You find this freaky as hell, but the idea that they're somewhat indefinitely stuck together seems to ease the two boys' concerns. Weirdos.
"Is that always why they stay?" Yugi asks, taking that Tone For Talking About Seeing Dead People. "Something holds them back?"
"Why else would they stay, Mutou?" You answer with another question, shooting him a bored look as the bitter taste returns to your tongue. "Why would anyone stay? Being dead among all the living isn't fun, you know. It's like... waiting for a bus. Or a train. You're meant to stay there for a short while, then leave for where you actually want to go. You don't want to be stuck in layover indefinitely. When you find out that your train is going to be late, it sucks."
Yugi goes silent, considering this, and you consider the subject closed for the day. Which is all well and good, because you had more to say but none of it was pleasant.
On your way home, the little girl at the corner gives you a wave as a salary man walks right through her, and you realize the ugliness in your chest is disappointment.
You pretend you didn't see her, and keep going.
007.
"Hey, the jailbait's here again."
Yugi is practically impossible to avoid when he stops by. There’s only so much you can do, anyway; he knows where you work, and everyone is quick to drag you to the front the moment anyone catches a glimpse of his spiky head. With his bashful stares and stammering speech, Yugi quickly endears himself to your co-workers at the café, who seem convinced that the young teen has some sort of misguided crush on you. There have already been several conversations about 'letting him down easy' and 'not leading him on.' For the most part, you tolerate it; they're mostly given to you with an edge of mirth, and you're fine with a little teasing. But there are moments like this where all you want to do is knock a few teeth out of those smug grins.
When you come out from the back and make eye contact Yugi smiles, joy and tentative hope sparkling in his eyes and you know there's no escape. Honestly speaking, it's not the pressure from your co-workers that forces you to meet him. It's him and the way he collapses in on himself when he's sad, visibly wilting before looking understanding, as if things couldn't be helped and he was meant for misery. It's him and how he lights up like a beacon with delight and turns bashful when you prompt him to speak, unused to getting any attention at all. You have no idea how this kid manages to wrap you around his little finger, but you're pretty sure that if you figured it out you could take over the world. He gives you an eager-yet-nervous wave, and for a moment looks very much like one of those special kinds of dog people, you know, the ones who just want their dog to love everyone and everyone to love their dog, but their dog is an asshole who hates everything under the sun beside their owner? Yea. One of those.
The dog in question is aptly named; Yami is truly Yugi’s shadow, a phantom that smells faintly of spices masked by blood and sand. Against the backdrop of his living anchor he is muted, pensive, but you are careful to always keep him in the corner of your vision as he lurks behind Yugi, and he regards you with similar caution. The relationship you two have is a simple one: he doesn’t like you, you don’t like him, but the two of you will play nice so long as it keeps Yugi happy.
“Right, Jirou,” Your co-worker perks up at his name being mentioned, clumsily catching your apron as you toss it at him. “I’m taking a lunch break.” As you shuffle about to gather your things in your back, you make a point of staring Yami down until he stares back, as if your acknowledgment could cement him as something beyond a dark reflection. ( it doesn’t work. the abyss stares back and burrows a chill deep into the marrow of your bones. )
“Have fun~!” Your co-workers bid their farewell in a patronizing unison of sing-song, waving their hands and grinning knowingly as you leave. You scowl, shrugging your bag over your shoulder and ushering Yami and Yugi out of the café.
The two take in your disgruntled exit with mirrored confusion, but Yugi is the only one to pipe up. “What was that about?”
You snort, pausing to glance up at the dreary gray overcast looming ahead. “I’m pretty sure they’re convinced you have a crush on me.” Yugi trips, spluttering and red-faced, and you almost fail to catch him because you’re laughing too hard. There aren’t that many years between you two, but Yugi seems to possess a vibrancy of youth, a liveliness that you can’t recall ever having, even at his age.
“I-I don’t—”
“I know that, Mutou,” You reply, wry smile twisting your lips, ignoring his protests that you should call him Yugi. You only call him Mutou to his face to hear him complain about it. “But they don’t know I see dead people, much less that you’re haunted, and that’d be a hassle to explain, don’t you think?” You wink at Yami as he’s been silently observing this whole time, and he visibly flinches before collecting himself. It’s not a full freeze, though; like everyone he acclimates. Even to your grating presence in his life after death.
You might have to start throwing things through him again, just to mix things up a bit.
“I’m not haunted,” Yugi protests, though without his usual fervent edge and instead with a smile, knowing the jab has no malice behind it. He too, acclimates to you, beginning to see the hidden lines you have drawn, and how your affection comes disguised by acerbic edges. “Yami’s here because I want him to be.” The ghost in question preens at that, a brilliant grin of sudden joy and tender affection that burns away the shadows in your vision.
“And that’s a good thing, too.” You try to sound threatening but instead the words are mushy and warm, softened by the tenderness seeping from the boy and his ghost as they smile at each other. Their affection is contagious, you realize, and decide to break the mood. "If you keep staring at each other like that, I'm gonna think the Yami's the one you have a crush on, Yugi."
Catching Yugi when he trips is much easier when you're not distracted by laughing your ass off.
"It's not— he's my other half—" He's in the middle of flustered stammering, attempting to regain his footing when he freezes in your arms. "You called me Yugi."
"No I didn't."
Shit, you totally did.
"Yes you did." Yami, ruining things for you once again. You turn to shoot him a nasty look to find him smiling at you and Yugi— actually smiling at you, not with disdain or dark amusement, but childish glee and harmless mischief.
Weirdo, you think, oddly warm.
"You did, you totally did!" Yugi crows from within your grasp, looking up and giving you a blinding smile, and the warmth in your chest blossoms into your own, quiet happiness. You turn your head away to hide the grin stretching across your face, still clutching the boy as he relishes his victory over you, as if you had sealed some sort of pact of friendship with the slip. ( he'd won you over for a bit now, but he didn't need to know that. ) Beside you Yami fuels the fire of his celebration, showering him in praises and reassurance and looking at you like you were no longer something scraped off the bottom of his shoe.
In the distance, the little girl stands at the corner. She spots you and waves.
You wave back.