Music and how you perform it tells a lot about moods. Actually, I got the idea for this while I was torturing myself over the notes of J. S. Bach's "Invention No. 4" (the first piece mentioned in this fic.) It reminded me of Seto… I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh! and I don't write music. I leave that to people like the classical composers and Nobuo Uematsu.

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Seto walked quietly down the halls of his mansion, his eyes closed as he wandered his own thoughts. For anyone normal, it would not have been a very wise thing to do, but Seto knew these passages better than he did the ways of his heart-much better. He came to a room at the back of the house with dark mahogany doors. He sighed, reminiscing as he turned the knob. It was simply furnished, with only a couch, a bookshelf, and a concert grand piano.

Memories haunted this room like restless ghosts, assailing him the moment he stepped over the threshold. Slowly, he walked over to the piano and seated himself on the bench. His feet touched the pedals effortlessly now, and his heels rested softly on the floor. His hands hovered over the keys, his wrists and fingers curving gracefully, waiting to stroke the ivory surfaces. The piano had been there since before he had come to this mansion. He had been the one to use it, though. It had been one of the things Gozaburo had forced him to learn, since music impressed important guests, especially if skillfully executed by a youngster. He had despised the black and white pattern as he strained his fingers hour after hour to reach the octaves and hit each note of the trills with crisp precision.

But now… A sigh escaped Seto. People said music could be a refuge from troubles…

He let his fingertips brush the keys. The piano issued a soft, tender note. He was pleased to see the servants had taken care of it. He had had it tuned last year out of tradition too, so it still sounded pretty good. Suddenly, he launched into a song. It took him a moment to realize what his fingers had chosen, but somehow he was pleased. It was "Invention No. 4" by J. S. Bach, its quick notes a little clumsy from lack of practice, but still very much its own piece. This had always been the piece that spoke to him the most, with a title that didn't say much about its inner personality and the ordered turbulence within its notes. The minor key too had intrigued him, they way it seemed so angry and hurt at the same time…like he was.

The lamp above the piano stared down, dead and dark. It reminded him gently of something long forgotten…

It was back at the orphanage, I think. Yes, after we had lived there for a while. It was that time of year called Christmas, but it didn't mean anything different to me. Just that it was colder. One thing happened, though, that made an impression on me forever. Somebody apparently had decided it was sad that us poor little orphans didn't get anything. So they gave us glowsticks. You know, the plastic ones that you crack and they shine for about eight hours. I suppose the thought was nice, but watching Mokuba's overjoyed face so full of wonder as he waved it about made me angry. Someone like my little brother shouldn't have been so easily excited.

I know he didn't remember, but I knew what times of giving had been like when we had a family. That he could be so satisfied with such a simple gift horrified me. He didn't know what it was like to be living well. He slept with his glowstick that night, and I let him have mine too. I certainly didn't want it. He drifted off immediately, but my eyes would not close. I lay there on the cot next to his as the hours passed, watching the lights in his hands fade slowly. It was then that I made a promise to myself. I vowed that someday I would make enough money to buy Mokuba a million glowsticks if he wanted.

The piano laughed softly as he finished the song, even as a sardonic smile appeared on his lips. If he had known how quickly that vow had come to pass…

He shook his head and started on another song: "Fountain of Diana" by Gillock. The notes ran together like crystalline droplets…or, he thought, like trickles of blood.

Pain was nothing new to me when I was adopted by Gozaburo…even before he showed his true abusive colors. At the orphanage, I was still small. Sometimes I thought I'd never grow tall enough to make myself known. Of course, I didn't know then that I'd be six feet tall before I was sixteen. Anyway, being small in a community of outcasts practically invites, shall we say, challenges. Some of my more vivid memories are of bursting patterns of colored stars before my eyes. At first, I was scared to stand up for myself, to fight back. They seemed so much bigger than me. Sometimes I'd just lie there, even if I weren't too badly hurt, hoping they'd just go away. I'd wait till their footsteps had faded before even wiping the blood from my nose.

One day, though, Mokuba was with me when they came. Thankfully, they were only interested in me, but it really got to me that my little brother had to see it all happen. I heard him whimper every time a punch or kick hit home. As they strutted off, I forced myself up from the dirt, spitting bloody mud from my mouth. "Never…again…" I heard myself murmur, and then my feet were pounding the ground. Before even I knew what was happening, I had tackled the leader from behind. Blinded by pain and rage, with the element of surprise on my side, I managed to drive my fists into his face a couple of times. Turns out, he wasn't used to having his prey fight back, and it wasn't long before they fled.

After that, I made sure nobody picked on me again. Until Gozaburo came.

His mind remembered those hurts as the piano softly murmured the beginning of Fur Elise. He also thought of the thin, pale scars that crisscrossed down his back and arms from his "father's" switch. They were the reason he always wore long sleeves. It seemed kind of ironic that the great, rich, powerful Seto Kaiba was actually hiding wherever he went. It had been tough then, mostly because so much more was on the line once he had actually been adopted. Gozaburo had the power to send Mokuba back to the orphanage, to split them up if he wasn't happy. With something like that hanging over his head, there was no way Seto could have fought back.

I don't remember what I had done wrong, only the pain. I remember the man's voice, lecturing as his supple rod painted lines of fire across my back. I remember struggling not to cry, to be stronger than that. It seemed to go on forever, as if he'd never grow tired. Then finally I felt his hand shove me from where I leaned against the wall, my uncovered back facing him, taking his punishment. I felt my hands slipping on the smooth paint and failing to support me. I saw the carpet coming up to meet me, barely cushioning my fall as I tumbled down. "Get out." His voice was low, cold, and furious, demanding immediate obedience.

Aware of little else besides the pain, I scrambled from the room, not bothering to grab my shirt from the floor where it lay. I felt dampness on my face and convinced myself it was just sweat, refusing to accept that it might be tears. I burst into my room, stumbling and finally collapsing on the bed.

I lay on my front, the rumpled sheets soft and gentle against my chest and stomach. I pressed my face against I pillow, letting it soak up the tears I could no longer hold back. I didn't hear the door open. Suddenly a soft voice broke the silence. "Niisama…"

I looked up to see Mokuba standing by the bed.

"Niisama…" He put his hand on my back, but drew it away when I flinched. I saw the thin lines of blood on his palm, only realizing just then that Gozaburo had broken my skin instead of just bruising it. "Does it hurt?"

"No, Mokuba," I lied. "I'm fine."

He nodded slightly, his eyes clearly telling that he wasn't falling for my ruse. I heard him pad from the room and shut the door. I forced myself to breathe, quieting my crying to nothingness. The door opened again a minute later. I looked up to see Mokuba holding a damp washcloth. He draped it over my back without a word; his worried eyes said everything for him. The wetness was cool and felt good on my hurts, soothing as Mokuba crept from the room. Funny how when the pain dies away it gives you more time and focus to build up feeling of resentment. I guess Gozaburo didn't know that he hurt my soul and warped my mind more than he injured my body.

R&R