Book Dragon: "Hey, basically, the bio says it all. This is going to be a collection of one-shots…Eventually. It may take some time. I'll update when I get an idea or something. As for now…just let me know if I've entertained you."

Mirror

I can see him, through the mirror. I can see him as clear as day. As clear as the night sky in the cold of winter twilight, his image is clear and crisp. It's as if you could reach out and touch him. Yet, when ever I try, I only get the cold smoothness beneath my fingers. Of the mirror. The mirror that doesn't show my reflection.

But his.

Ocean eyes. He has eyes that reflect the blueness of the Atlantic Ocean. Cold…Hard…a deathly deep blue that has a rage, an immense sternness. These are the eyes of a scared man. A hurt man. A man's whose childhood was snatched away. Like a flower moments from bloom that is uselessly crushed in it's prime. I feel deeply sorrowed by these eyes that stare so consistently back at me. No, that not right. He stares back at himself. His own reflection.

I watch as he strengthens his jacket, dove white and sleeveless. His stare is constant, and he brushes his fingers through his brown locks, fixing them. He carries that same serious look on his pale face. How can he stare so coldly? I shiver, my marrow chilled. Yet he 'ignores' me, continues fixing his appearance.

And I stand in front of the mirror in which he is shown, like a portal of sorts, the full length mirror. He's in his battle city attire, if you haven't guessed. I can help but feel excited. Perhaps, today. Today, maybe he'll see behind the reflection, finally see me, talk to me. I stand eagerly, two feet from the mirror.

My hand is hesitant, hovering in front of me. I want to reach out, reach through this reflective sustain in which a mirror is made of, reach through and touch him, let him know I'm here. I wish to help. Oh, it's like a mournful melody, playing incessantly. I want to let him know he's not alone, he's never alone. There are many of us that know his pain. His emotional wounds.

We see past your façade. We see the agony you live through everyday. We wish to keep you safe, to end this suffering in which has been inflicted upon you. We'll stand by your side, for that is what friends do, and we will battle away anything that threatens you.

And once again, my fingers touch cold hard mirror, and he finishes his daily routine, turns briskly from his own reflection and leaves the mirror, and leaving the inner workings of his home to my waking eyes. And again, as usual, my hopefulness is crushed like a newly blooming flower.

It's been a hard day. I drop my bag to the floor, and just let myself fall onto my bed. I'm so depressed. The cool darkness is coaxing, and I want to sleep. Yet, again, like the last three weeks of my existence, I sense movement. I know who it is. I know, and I'm so tired. I wish not to look, and yet I can't help myself as I look up.

He's fixing his shirt. His jacket is missing. He's just in the midnight black long sleeves. His fingers are pale and long, elegant. His eyes are deep, focused. The ocean waves are calm in his orbs. His face, as usual, captures my attention.

And as usual, I lean back, curling my legs up as I sit against the wall, and watch with strangely timid eyes. Every once of excitement is gone. And not for the first time, I begin my musings.

"What are you doing today?" I ask to no one in particular. He stares back, not flinching or blinking in anyway. He continues his business, straightening and polishing is appearance. Got to be clean and pressed for news cameras, right? I can't be angry. I'd be doing the same thing if I were in his shoes.

Something catches his attention. I can see it in the way his eyes change. No longer focused on the mirror. He turns his eyes toward his left, tilting his face side ways. I look up and see that the door is now open, and a boy, perhaps a preteen, is standing in the doorway. His black hair reaches past his shoulders, and his eyes are a darker navy than his brother's. Those eyes are staring at him. His mouth opens and shuts, yet no sound enters my ears.

He looks at the boy, listening to those unhearable words, speaks in his silent tongue, before turning back to the mirror. The boy, I watch him frown behind his brother's back, turn and shut the door softly behind him. I frown as I turn back to the businessman, seeing on his face that same apathy mask. Cryptic. Something he created. My frown grows deeper.

"What have you said?" I ask in a whisper.

But as usual, he never answers my questions.

My music is loud. I have my laptop out and I'm typing away. I know the story I'm weaving won't get anywhere, but still, it's the thrill of just confessing my inner thoughts and imaginings. My dreams.

Yet before I can get to heart of the constant scene had that been plaguing me, the dull plain background of the mirror is disturbed by his storming form, passing in and out in the span of a few seconds. I catch it, in the corner of my eye. I glanced at it, and wait a moment to see if I was just imagined it. He graces my sight again, traveling in the opposite direction. I can not miss the look of rage covering his expression.

Curiosity reawaked, I place my laptop aside and vigilantly watch. And for several moments there is no movement, but I'm confident. I wait several more minutes. And just as I get annoyed, the sight of a large desk comes crashing into the room silently and falls onto its side, through the door I had once seen Mokuba through and flinch. He comes in quickly after it, with a pace like a bat out of hell.

Rage has engulfed him. It burns like wildfire. An ocean boiling. I'm fascinated by it. Fascinated and slightly afraid. He grabs the desk by the it's opposite corners, his frame bent, and lifts it off the ground with majestic ease as he throws it farther. My entire mirror view is shaken by the weight of the thing tumbling about into the wall where I can still see it.

I watch in horror as he returns to the door and slams it with all his might, his white jacket swishing. In his wrath with slamming feet he returns to the cracked desk. I watch as in his ire he tares all the drawers out, flinging them across the room, as he continues to break the desk, kicking it and smashing his fists into it.

A half hour later the desk is in indistinct pieces, merely chunks of wood, and he, the famous CEO is on his knees, torn apart much like that desk. He doesn't move. Not so much of a quiver emanates from his form. He simply stays down, on his knees, his back to me, and arms out to his sides, like a small troubled boy who has been hurt far too many times.

I'm on my feet, I realize, and my hands are pressed against the mirror. I feel that my eyes are the widest they can go, my breath short, and it is me that is shaking. I'm shaking so badly. Part of me wishes to go through, talk to him, and comfort him. And the other? I feel newly aware of his savagery. I can still see him ripping the frame into shears with his bare hands. Is now cut up and bleeding hands.

I let my forehead touch the glass-like surface, let out a shuddering sigh. So much pain. It's contagious. I feel the fresh tears on my cheeks. Warm but never comforting. I wipe them away with my fists. Why must I be so empathic? Why can't I be the one to walk through the world apathetically? He doesn't even cry, and yet this watery salt covers my face. And yet I know why.

"He has no more tears to shed."

Hours later, I wake. I don't know when I fell asleep, but I did so while leaning against the bed, cradling my emotional wounds. His movement has awoken me. I flinch at how close his reflection is. He's standing, but barely. The image shakes as he used the mirror to keep himself up right. His hair is out of place, ruffled and not trim. Large purple color line the bottom of his eyes. He looks like he's been through hell.

I'm sure he has.

His breath steams the mirror, making a foggy imprint that quickly dissolves. He looks at his reflection with weak eyes. I am struck by them. And yet they close, and again he sinks to the floor at my level, his hand presses against the mirror, and I can see even his palms are scratched.

Uncertainly my hand is raised. It's like I'm in a trance, my movement slow. I let my hand press the mirror, my hand over his, kneeling.

"I'm here." I whisper gently. He shifts his head, his eyes still closed, and it looks like he's trying to sleep. He's so tired. But this is all I can do.

"I'm here Seto." His eyes peal open and again he looks into the mirror, but no more is there sternness. The pain is slowly receding, like the ocean's tide.

And for a moment, I feel like he could see me.

Book Dragon: "Hope you liked it."