Full
A YGO! Duel Monsters Fan Fiction
Summary: It's no secret that the Kaiba brothers live luxuriously. But the one luxury they can't seem to afford is time; not even for spring cleaning, or reading. The rift between the two worsens when Seto is forced to fire most of his helpers, due to a dire situation involving his company. Now, Mokuba is left alone, scavenging for himself, and Seto's workaholic attitude and drive to succeed prevent him from mending the breaking ties with his beloved brother. What's the solution of a rich, busy billionaire then? Simple. He hires help. Singular.
A/N: Goodness, how long has it been since I last wrote for this fandom? Way too long, I tell ya'all. Way too long. But that's all about to change with this story. I know I have a million other pending stories, however, this certain plot bunny refused to leave my head until I wrote it down. I think it's because I watched "Babette's Feast" for film class. It's a helluva good movie, and I suppose now is the best time to say that this entire story, plot and all, is based off of that. You don't need to watch it to get this story, of course, but it'd be great if you notice the Easter Eggs I'll be putting here and there, in reference to the film.
Ah, anyway! Why am I rambling on and on about this? Let's get to the story! I can't guarantee fast updates, but if you review I could make an exception ;) Haha, I kid, I kid! Just enjoy the story guys, and I beg of you not to flame. It's a waste of time on both our parts, wouldn't you agree?
Disclaimer: I don't own this fandom. I wish I did. I could have Seto all to myself, mwahahaha!
Warnings: It's rated T+ for language and some mature, heavy-ish themes. This story is lemon-free, and there is an OC involved. Put a little faith in me, I promise you won't end up rolling your at her. Err, at least, I hope you won't...cue nervous laughter? And lastly, I'm warning you all now, this story will make you very, very hungry. Oh yes. Title should be self-explanatory, as well as the inspiration for this story.
Now, let's really get on with the show! I recommend viewing this story in either 3/4 or 1/2 page view setting. It makes it look spiffier, in my opinion.
CHAPTER I
"The Restaurant Scene."
When working up till the wee hours of the morning, a certain CEO tells himself many things to keep his mind on his latest project. He needs to take a break, make a cup of coffee, and get his senses back together— too much circuitry, too many broken wires that needed repair. There's a presentation at 10 AM, then he has a lunch meeting with his business affiliates. A casual glance at the digital clock and it reads 3:41 AM. With an impassive expression and nimble fingers typing away on a rather advanced looking laptop, the CEO ignores his needs and focuses. He tries to lose himself in the numbers and charts and graphs. He desperately needs to wash his face, take a cold shower, and do a number one. Does he allow any of these?
...Maybe for the last one, yes, but for the others? If he can help it, no, he does not allow it.
The CEO's brows furrow, and the next time he looks at the clock, it is 6 AM.
Half of his blueprints have been coded and uploaded. He's completed more than two-thirds of his workload for the week. Ah, but what about for next week? And what of the dinner meeting with his employers and consultants? The CEO, with bland eyes and a straight face, closes his laptop and stretches. He walks to the window—and what a window he had! The view was impeccable, though he had to admit, he never once looked outside and felt the same rush of joy and inspiration as a starving artist would—and without a single ounce of hesitation, covers the city's brightening sky line with his designer blinds.
6:04 AM. He really needs to prioritize his schedule better.
"Your brother is on the other line, sir."
"How many times do I have to tell you to transfer our calls directly?" He sighs irritably. "Put the call up."
The CEO does not wait for the well-rehearsed, almost mechanical apology from his secretary of five years. He's aware that she never listened to his instruction regarding his brother calling him at work because it gives her the excuse to listen to his voice for an extended period of a mere ten seconds. He's not dumb, he's used to reading people even when he doesn't care to.
His thoughts were interrupted by a familiar, refreshing voice.
The message was not as enjoyable to hear.
"You missed it again, Seto." He hated that tone. He hated it.
"I know. I was busy."
He can feel his younger brother shifting in the other end, probably in an attempt to hold the phone on the cradle of his shoulder while eating a bowl of soggy cereal.
"You're always busy."
If it was any other person, he'd have a good, clean comeback that would assure each person on the end of the phone that their conversation was over. But this was his brother—and his brother wasn't some other person—so the CEO sighed heavily and gave the phone call a little more patience than he'd like to admit.
"Then you shouldn't have to keep wondering why I don't make it." He makes it a point to restrain himself. It was easy when he spoke to him, but the fatigue from the night before was starting to settle in his stomach, and it throbbed in the back of his head. He regretted drinking that extra cup of coffee.
"..."
He can feel his younger brother pouting, giving him the face that would strike guilt into the hearts of even the world's toughest, battle-hardened warriors. He was glad that it wasn't a video call. He wouldn't last a single second against the onslaught of those big, blue eyes. The CEO was well-trained against such facades, though he always made an exemption for this particular scenario. He continued to type, knowing what he should say but not knowing how to say it.
The silence drifted for exactly one minute and ten seconds before the older sibling groaned against the mouthpiece of the phone.
"Saturday afternoon, we'll make up for that night then. Happy?"
His brother smiles, but it is not enthusiastic nor was it warm. It was the simple act of making the effort to appreciate his brother's lie by turning the corners of his lips upward, something like a response to the effort his brother made to lie to him, just to make him, in turn, happy. The paradox between the two was astoundingly mundane.
"Okay. I'll call again later. Good luck with work."
"Mm. Take the driver to school, don't walk. It's freezing outside."
"Saturday, okay?"
The CEO stops for a brief fraction of a second in whatever it was he was calculating on his pristine text pad, and then continues his work.
"Yes."
"Bye."
"Bye."
They hang up at the same time, and the CEO—dressed in his usual work clothes of black shirt, black shoes, black pants and blue trench coat—closes his eyes. He rolls his neck and starts a new document to type in, forgetting the date of Saturday almost instantaneously. A new pie chart was uploaded on his server regarding the economic trends of his new product line up.
The CEO subconsciously wondered if his him and his brother would ever get to watch a movie together. They used to do that so often, before. The CEO couldn't think of a single reason as to what changed. Work? He always had work, though. But when there were charts and equations and stocks to check, who had the patience to wonder about things like that? Maybe tomorrow, the CEO told himself. He'd think up of a reason tomorrow.
In the heart of the brothers' manor, the younger of the two siblings throws his cereal down the drainage and doesn't look back as he runs outside for school. He forgets to tell his brother that despite their income on a weekly basis, their pantry and refrigerator were empty.
He also forgets to mention that he's been eating stale cereal for weeks. His brother is busy. He supposed it could wait.
The CEO is surrounded with business men in tight suits and fitted cufflinks. He speaks only when he is spoken to. He doesn't glance around. The bright lights and red hues of the room make him dizzy. His eyes are unfocused, and he sips from his glass of wine. He has little idea of who refilled his glass, or who even ordered a bottle.
"Mr. Kaiba, the stock market's stability rate has decreased by over 3.5% within the span of seven hours. Should we reclaim our own stocks and replenish our supplies in other countries?" He briefly recognizes the man—he had a moustache and was aging quite poorly, and he was certain he was always in meetings. He wasn't as important as the rest of his council; otherwise he would have remembered who he was.
"That's not advisable. Our trends chart shows a 6.54% increase in the next day or two. We'll regain momentum then. Don't make such impulsive conclusions based on such a negligible amount of data."
He was on his second glass, downing it down for a third. He'll regret it in the morning again, but he didn't care to worry. It was like water when you got down to the fourth and the fifth serving.
The business men were speaking to him, and they discussed the coming weeks of the latest production of hologram projectors for universities. They were eating when he realized he was having his favourite dish—beef filet with foie gras sauce. Why didn't he notice that first bite? The CEO didn't notice his stomach was growling either. Nor did he notice that he was already back home, and that he was collapsed on his desk the moment he sat himself down on his plush leather chair.
He had forgotten he was at that place, at that meeting as soon as he woke up. The numbers retained in his mind out of pure discipline for his work, but the faces, the tastes (or lack of thereof)...they were lost on him. He blamed the alcohol. Was it the alcohol? Probably. It went down like water. That's all he could remember.
The CEO, eyes bloodshot and half-closed, glanced at the digital clock. It read 2:30 PM in the afternoon. He cursed and showered and regained his routine, his momentum, just like his precious stocks. The cycle began without much effort. It was so easy, now.
As he holed himself up in his study, doors closed firmly and windows open for just enough light to pass through the artificially lit room, a mop of black hair pointedly stood out against a background of noise and silence. The younger sibling hugged his knees, his gaze fixated on the television set. He looked strange. Maybe it was the shadows the TV made on his face that made him look so dry. Empty. Unhealthy.
He liked that his favorite Saturday morning shows had re-runs in the afternoons. It helped occupy him.
He still hadn't told his brother that there was nothing in the pantry or in the cupboards or the fridge. He's busy. He supposed that he could wait.