In the early evening, Mokuba Kaiba watched the sun set over Domino City, the place he had called home all his life. He rubbed the cushion of the small couch he sat on, one that was made more for appearances than comfort, and noticed that it was still very new, much like everything else in the Kaiba Manor. The manor itself was not home to him, because it did not feel like one. Home was where everything was comfortable and worn, not stiff and formal as it was here. Home was where families lived, and although he and his brother- who was the only family he had left- came here to rest at the end of the day, they were not here enough to be able to say they lived there. There was only one place he had called home in his life, but the memories were few and faded, like the worn edges of a photograph. Though he struggled to remember most things, a few remained crystalline. The feel of the couch beneath him, the warmth of the living room, spending time by a fireplace, eating meals that were not covered beneath trays. The memories of his parents- namely his father since he had only seen his mother in pictures, were even fewer. But he thought he could remember a blue eyed man with kind eyes, who had a hearty chuckle of a laugh.

He put his fingers to the cool glass of the window, perhaps thinking that he could touch that memory if he tried. The sun had already gone below the horizon, and the night encroached on the city. The darkness came quickly, and something strange happened when he glanced at the clock in the room. A memory, so faded it almost slipped through his grasp, came to him, and he gripped it quickly before it would go, and let it play.

He and his father and brother were in the living room of their home. The coffee table had been pushed back, and he had been standing on his father's shoes as he danced with him to a silly song, and then he would lift him to his hip and Seto would have a turn with him, and he would spin around and around until Mokuba fell asleep and his father would take him to bed after. The feeling of those strong hands carrying him to bed seemed so real he had to look down and make sure they weren't there. But the memory had the insubstantial hazed edges of a dream. Was it even real? There was only one way to find out.

He got up from the couch, and went to his brother's home office, where he was sure to find him working. Sure enough, the clicking of keys on a keyboard confirmed his idea. He knocked lightly, and Seto would likely know it was him.

"Enter." His brother called. Mokuba did just that, and when Seto saw whom it was, he paused in his typing.

"Hey Seto?" Mokuba asked, not looking at his brother as he tried to hang onto that possible memory by replaying it over and over.

"What is it, Mokuba?" Seto asked, in a soft tone. He saw that his brother was seriously thinking about something and he wanted to ease his mind.

"I can't figure out if I remembered something about home or if… if it was just something I made up. Did Dad used to dance with us?"

Seto blinked. Where had that even come from? That hadn't happened since Mokuba had been four. He had to swallow to stop a lump forming in his throat. He hadn't thought about that since before Gozaburo. Much as he wanted to brush this off like dust on his coat, he knew Mokuba would not let this go. For as much as he believed in burying the past, he knew his brother did not feel the same. Mokuba believed in remembering the past to grow from it, even though he wished his brother thought the same as he did. He could not deny his brother this, because he deserved at least a few memories of their parents, something to remind him that there was kindness in their family when he himself did not show it. He took in a breath.

"Yes, he did."

Mokuba's head shot up. "That was real? It wasn't a dream?"

"No, Mokuba. It was not a dream. I'm surprised you even remember…" He trailed off.

"I was looking at the clock and it just came… It's so far away though. I almost lost it."

"You were four the last time that happened."

Mokuba's eyes widened. "So does that mean it was just before the accident?"

"Yes." Seto's face grew pinched at the grim reminder.

Mokuba went up to his brother. "Thank you, Seto."

Seto nodded into his brother's black silk hair.

Mokuba let go and went to get ready for bed, but just before he was out of earshot, Kaiba caught the mumbled words, "I wish I could have one more dance with him."

Seto Kaiba saved his document and closed his computer. He knew what needed to be done now.

Mokuba got prepared for bed, dressing in his gray pajamas, and brushing his teeth. He brushed through his hair too, a rare thing for him to do in the evening. But he wanted time to think, time to focus on that memory. Every stroke of the brush through his raven mane came with another moment of the memory, the sound of that song, his father's laugh. When the tangles in his hair were brushed through completely, leaving not a one remaining, he set the wooden brush down on his bathroom counter, and was about to go to bed, when he heard footsteps down the hall. His door was open, and he pivoted to see his older brother in the doorway.

"Seto? Did you come to say goodnight?"

"Not quite. Come with me."

Mokuba was surprised but followed his brother, and Seto led him downstairs, into the living room. A small record player was situated on the coffee table. It was small and dusty, definitely not fitting the rest of the house. Mokuba blinked. "Seto what-"

"That record player used to be ours. After our parents died our relatives sold most of our things to get money for them. Our aunt sold this to an antique collector. When I became the head of Kaiba Corp I had someone track it down through receipts. You used to ask me all the time about that, but by the time I got it you had stopped. So I saved it in case you ever did."

Mokuba blinked, and went over to touch it, his finger gathering a layer of dust film as he ran it over the rough and worn wood. He was shocked to be touching a piece of his personal history. He was so taken with it that he did not notice his brother gathering a record from nearby, one that he had pulled out for this occasion. Mokuba looked up as Seto put the record on the Turntable.

The song that began playing was the song from his memory. The memory replayed, but this time stronger and more concrete. He was watching that memory so much that he almost didn't see Seto offering him his hand.

The same way his father had before they danced.

Mokuba put his hand in his brother's. His brother who, for all intents and purposes, had become his father. His brother was his guardian, his caretaker, his best friend, his confidant. Everything a father should be. He stood on his brother's shoes, and Seto did not seem to mind nor care about the weight. He moved, just as their father had when they danced. When it came to the part of the song their father had always spun Mokuba at, Seto did the same. He picked up his brother the way he had when he was a toddler, and spun around in circles. The motion, one so old yet so new, soothed him and he almost fell asleep. When the song ended, Seto carried him to bed and tucked him into bed.

That night Mokuba fell asleep with a smile, because in his own way, he had danced with his father again.