1.
He doesn't know what to do.
He can't help but notice him-the shaggy-haired blond boy who sits three desks to his right, his movements as rough and careless as Seto's are choreographed and precise.
Taking up space where Seto wishes he wouldn't.
-carefree. Raucous and rambunctious. Obnoxious if Seto really thinks about it-
He can't help but notice the sinewy arms beneath the blue-violet uniform jacket, making Seto too aware of his own slender frame. A redwood beside a willow. Tree towering over a bamboo stalk.
The large, calloused hands as they gesticulate wildly to illustrate his point. That chuckle coloring his thickly-accented voice.
-that boy, stumbling over certain words as if they do not come to him quickly enough, tongue moving too rapidly for his brain to play catch-up-
Uncontrolled laughter ringing out in a quiet classroom.
He can't help but notice those warm brown eyes when the ones he sees in the mirror every morning are so cold. A whole other season. A different continent entirely.
He can't help but remember with a twinge the damned blush that had heated his neck on the first day as the other boy had swung around towards him, crammed into the too-small seat, threatening to burst out with the too-muchness of everything he was. Is.
"Heya-I'm Joey Wheeler. And you are…?"
-it's only natural that he should want to stand in that light-
And so when that boy's hand finds his own-he doesn't know how it happens, he swears-and suddenly there's a tangle of lips and tongues and it's all strange and unfamiliar and the green-tiled floor is prickling cold against his back, something like a smile tugging at his chest where everything's both too-slow and too-quick-yes, this, please, just what he's wanted for so long-
Easier to pretend it didn't happen.
Easier just to hate him.
2.
He doesn't know what to do.
The twittering twerp who barely reaches his waist but for that ridiculous pile of hair, face all round and so innocent and naive-
He should hate him like he hates all of them.
-that disgusting purity is almost laughable in a world where surviving means bloodying one's hands-
Arms open. Heart open. Promising things Seto doesn't let himself believe. Can't let himself believe.
-the way the other boy's face lights up when he sees him. The way he tries and tries again to get closer. To know him in some way-
Always. Without fail. Even as the rest of the world prepares to write him off as heartless. Cruel. A monster. That faith in him. In some kernel of goodness within him that only Yugi can see.
As if Yugi genuinely cares.
-Seto knows he cannot allow himself to fall for that. No one is truly that good. No one is truly that accepting again and again and again-
And yet-
Yugi gives his heart to everyone like that.
-it's only natural he should want to feel the promise of that embrace-
Easier to pretend it's a simple rivalry.
Easier to pretend hearing that irrepressible, excitable "Kaiba-kun!" doesn't seep into his spine and linger.
3.
He doesn't know what to do.
He knows he should hate him, too. It would only make sense for him to hate the stranger in Yugi's body. The one who takes everything away from him. Takes and takes and takes. Rendering him always a runner-up when he and he alone should occupy that pedestal.
-he's always loved a challenge, hasn't he?-
The sudden deeper, more dignified voice issuing from those lips. Unnaturally crimson eyes that seem like they've seen things. Too many things. Thousands of years of horrors, all blanketed in a thick forgetful fog.
The smirk matching his own from across the arena. Wily. Loving the game just as much as he. The same sort of blood pumping through their veins.
-it's only natural he should want to know what it's like. To remember what giving in feels like-
That radiant, knowing air. As if he can see what Seto doesn't allow himself to think of. Things like brilliant white sheets cutting across bodies. Crimson eyes closed tightly. Half-murmured words more music than sense. Marks on limbs. Necks.
-the only one. The only one Seto will ever lose to. The only one who inspires this strange thirst in him-
Easier to pretend it's merely that kind of obsession.
Easier to pretend the thought of never seeing him again doesn't hurt.
4.
He doesn't know what to do.
-is it possible to miss something you never had?-
Her name sticking to the roof of his mouth. The sound of it imbued with so many things. Not quite like memories, but similarly hazy and melancholy. Garbed in a faint shroud. A veil separating this strange vision from the cracked world of reality.
"Kisara..."
Is this what love is?
Is it still love, even this way? Even after the past has come to rest, to settle beneath endless sifting sands?
-buried deep enough to be able to deny it-
Is it love if it's like this? A love he can only recall in the throes of dreams? Writhing and squirming behind fluttering lids, floating before him without body or sense?
The white threads of her hair are still tangled around his heart, he realizes.
It is with reluctance that he cuts them. Neatly. No fraying edges to torment him.
Yet every time his fingers brush against those three cards he remembers.
-what never was-
-what could have been-
Easier to pretend that it doesn't still call out to him, sirenlike, with the traces of her lingering like something unsaid.
Filling his throat. Stopping it up.
His chest. Tight.
Easier to pretend he doesn't believe in the past.
5.
He doesn't know what to do.
She annoys him. She's far too poised, movements fluid and graceful where his are brittle. Her voice low and confident, making him all too aware of the whining edge that has adhered to his own. Suddenly.
-even if she's only saying nonsense. Falsehoods. Children's fairy tales dressed up in theatrical garb-
She confuses him. In her presence, a strange sort of wilting. Gulping, breathless, clammy hand on the metal briefcase as he follows her into the bowels of the museum. Shadows beckoning coyly, triggering bravado he can't quite make himself understand.
-panting and soaked through with sweat on the gallery floor, looking up at the stupid carving on the wall helplessly, as if it could explain this as well-
She surprises him. The card passing from her hand to his. The brush of her fingertips against his own like petals dripping onto his hand. Velvety. A strange trust like a gossamer thread between them. Nothing he ever wanted. Expected. Something to hold him into place.
"You will return the card to me."
-the authority in her voice. The lushness of it all like a drill into his chest-
"I have foreseen it."
She angers him. Thinking what she has to say matters.
She frightens him, because he knows too well that it does.
-it's only natural that he should want to settle himself into the spell she's woven-
And she nearly is his undoing. Across the playing field, a vision before his eyes he does everything in his power to deny. To shutter away. The night air prickling on their skin. Her small smile even as she accepts her defeat. Proving once and for all that whatever she's said is nonsense.
"Thank you."
And yet.
And yet he watches her go, the effort of keeping his eyes firm and detached burning into near-tears.
Easier to pretend he didn't look at her that way.
Easier to pretend he doesn't think about things like that.
He doesn't know what to do.
Accepting his place as second-best was easier than he'd thought it would be. After all, he still has a company to run. There will always be those lesser than him. People he can sneer at.
Those urges that had gnawed away at him for years-that tender, insistent acid-still a murky mess.
He hasn't the heart for it anymore, if he ever did.
He wonders if they've all moved on.
He wonders if he will move on.
"You loved them, didn't you?"
His head in her lap. Her fingers in his hair. Her dark hair like a curtain surrounding him. Protecting him. Blue eyes wet with a smile as she regards him. Keen. Gentle.
"Yes."
In his own way. Stabbing at his lips from behind.
Always left unsaid.
Until now.
"It doesn't mean I love you any less."
It feels like a blessing that he can say it. Say it without his voice cracking. Have the wherewithal to say it in the first place.
A small gust of wind rifles through their clothing. Her canvas dress soft and plain. Sturdy.
Pretending stopped being easy long ago.
She untangles the last of the tiny, frazzled knots in the chestnut locks.
Knowing that this is the clearest way he can say it. Understanding.
"I know." A rare grin from her.
And with that, something like the weight of thousands of years melts away.
He knows now what to do.