"Seto-sama."
This is ridiculous. He is a convenience, a luxury, nothing more. Had I not done twice, thrice as much work myself before he even existed? And yet…
"..Sir."
"Isono?"
"What are your orders, Seto-sama?"
Kaiba furrowed his brows slightly, his thoughts whirling furiously around his suddenly compromised agenda for the day. A supervisory board meeting. Testing and troubleshooting of his new software and hardware prototypes. Lunch with a prestigious industrial tycoon. Phone calls and correspondence with the Kaiba Land in Florida. Spending time and having dinner with Mokuba… all this he had carefully planned and discussed with his clone a few days prior and would have required him, as Kaiba had done since the clone's inception, to impersonate him with all the technical and business knowledge artificially implanted in his memory. Seto, a highly confidential and controversial scientific project, the first successful clone created for the sole purpose of acting as a substitute to his original upon request, had proven to be a reliable, diligent ally; in just a few days, he had learned to carefully imitate Kaiba's gestures and expressions, assuming his airs and tastes as his own, and had thus, within a matter of weeks, become indispensible to Kaiba as an impersonator, colleague and even on occasions, confidant. Any tedious technical task or boring meeting could easily be relegated to him; and thanks to a cybernetic ocular implant that the medical team insisted on for safety and monitoring purposes, Seto was able to present Kaiba with audio-visual recordings of his working sessions, all neatly stored on easily accessible microchips. Mokuba had kept his distance from the artificial creature, refusing to think of him as even one atom akin to his Nii-sama, but Kaiba regarded his clone with the proud satisfaction of an employer in charge of a perfect employee… and could not help but twist his mouth in resentment at the thought of having to manage all these tasks without him. And why should he? It would be a great inconvenience. Surely Seto could not be so very ill as to not be able to merely sit through a board meeting or type up a few e-mails, could he?
"I will see him. Wait by the door."
The mansion was lofty and modernized enough to afford Seto the comfort of his own living quarters: a large former bedchamber handsomely furnished and fitted with anything he might need if he were not to be seen or heard while there were guests on the premises. The room had its own private bathroom, one corner was fashioned into a home office and another corner turned into a fully installed kitchenette, well-stocked to keep Seto supplied for up to a week if required. Seto preferred it that way, prompted by his solitary nature as well as the way Mokuba avoided him whenever they met, and hardly stirred out of doors except to work and to take long walks on the mansion grounds at nightfall. And so there he was, lying in the enormous canopied bed when Kaiba knocked and immediately entered the room. Seto made no effort to acknowledge his visitor; his eyes remained closed in their dark sockets, teetering on the verge of lucid fever dreams. Kaiba closed the distance between them with a graceful stride and stood looming over his clone, eyes settling on the slow rise and fall of his chest, the shallow breathing grating on his ears.
"Seto."
The clone's eyes flittered open, hazy but slowly regaining their focus. Kaiba briefly wondered if the nano-camera was recording.
"What's wrong, Seto?"
The clone closed his eyes, one hand clenching the sheets just a little bit tighter.
"Fever. Strong headache," he murmured, obediently citing his symptoms. "Slight dizziness. Fatigue."
"Tch," Kaiba scowled and was about to tell Seto that it's no excuse, that he merely fancies himself too ill even though a couple of pills and some water would easily see him through the meeting and even some of the troubleshooting, when Seto's eyes opened again but would not fix on his, dropping instead to the floor behind him as if they were cast down in shame.
"Please let me stay in bed today."
Kaiba's face tensed, his lips parting for complete dismissal when a creeping chill seized him to stare transfixed at those pale cheeks and the dark, sweat-drenched locks clinging to Seto's forehead. He himself had made that very same plea to Gozaburo Kaiba when he had first fallen ill at the age of ten, and made one more attempt the second time two years later, to no avail – he could still feel his adoptive father's death grip on his arm as he dragged him out of bed, his knees twitching slightly at the memory of buckling under the weight of onsetting vertigo. He threw up at least twice that morning and was forced to clean it up, a memory that carried the acrid taste of humiliation and helplessness to this very day, of the wretchedness he felt for weeks no matter how many pills he had taken or how much water he drank to wash it down. Seto had no memory of it – all he knew of Kaiba's early teens was that he had worked very hard to earn his company and Gozaburo Kaiba was a tyrant and the scum of the earth, and it took Kaiba a moment to realize that Seto's plea was completely uninformed of the fact that such a request had been impossible in this house for years; that Seto's request was, in fact, natural and human, and just like him years ago, Seto too was at the mercy of someone who had complete power over him. Kaiba clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into a tight fist that gripped his own selfish wants one more time before slowly releasing its object. Seto's gaze was still lowered to the floor, obviously expecting either objection or refusal, but neither came. Instead, Kaiba lowered himself and sat down by Seto's side, carefully taking in his surroundings. A digital thermometer on the nightstand. A kitchen bowl that currently held cold water with a few melted ice cubes bobbing around a soaked cloth – the drenched locks on Seto's forehead now made much better sense. Kaiba's hand twitched, moving instinctively to brush that thick dark hair to the side, his fingers pressing against a burning forehead as it had done many times by Mokuba's sickbed. Seto closed his eyes.
"Hn." Kaiba's hand now reached for the cloth, wringing it hard.
"Are you upset with me?" asked Seto. Kaiba paused, softly flicking water off his fingers into the bowl, searching his feelings. Was he upset that his meticulously constructed day was ruined? Yes, definitely. But was he upset at Seto, hard working, honest, always co-operative Seto, for having caught a bad chill literally for the first time in his life? No… no. He did not say it aloud, but a moment later he dabbed the cloth carefully to Seto's skin, soothing its heat with welcome cold, and it sufficed for an answer. Seto lay still and blind, his lips curling into the shadow of a smile, and Kaiba could not help but admire his features, the elegant curve of his nose, how well-made he was. Even in illness, in subpar conditions, his face appeared to him very noble, even amiable… Especially that smile. Kaiba hardly ever smiled at him; this, he realized, was one expression that was entirely Seto's own.
"What are you smiling at?" he asked, feigning annoyance as the cloth trailed down Seto's cheek to the side of his neck, the rest of him shielded by his pajamas and the sheets. Seto's smile widened in response, drawing his lips into pleasant shapes.
"Nothing," he said, his voice low as a whisper. Kaiba scoffed and hovered for a moment longer above the sharp ridges of Seto's half-exposed collarbone.
"You may stay in bed until you are recovered," spoke Kaiba, submerging the cloth in the icy water again. Wringing it thoroughly, he added, "I will send someone from our medical team to look at you."
"Anyone but Hanji," murmured Seto, drawing a sharp breath as the cloth was pressed to his aching temple. "I don't like creeps." Kaiba let out an amused hmph.
"You cannot deny that you're an interesting specimen," he replied as he dabbed Seto's neck, glancing down at the gleam of his sternum, or what little he could see of it.
"They may dissect me if I die of this fever. Not before," growled Seto, his lips defiantly pressed together. Kaiba gave a low chuckle.
"You will be fine," he said, letting the cloth sink in the bowl. Seto watched, then glanced from the bowl to him.
"Thank you," he said, still pale but looking a bit more comfortable, a bit more alive. Kaiba allowed himself a small sigh as he stood.
"Get well soon, Seto," he said, leaving the room with slow, pacing steps.
"Isono," spoke Kaiba once he closed the door.
"Seto-sama?" came the swift reply from a few steps away, having stood obediently outside the door.
"Will you stay with him?" asked Kaiba in an careful monotone. "Stay until I'm back?" Isono blinked.
"If it is your wish, Sir…"
"It is." Kaiba turned towards the staircase but stopped short of the banister. "Call the medical team and have someone take a look at him. Anyone but Hanji. And make sure he gets enough medicine and rest."
"Yes, Seto-sama. Anything else?"
"…Tell Mokuba that I will be a few hours late. And tell him.."
"..Not to be angry at your clone, Sir?"
"You noticed.."
"Sir, with all due respect, Mokuba has every right to be suspicious of an artificially created replica–"
"Seto may be my creation, but he is his own person," spoke Kaiba as he turned around sharply to face Isono. "Mokuba is not required to love him, but he need not despise him, especially not for something beyond his control."
"I will do my best to relay the message, Seto-sama."
"Good." He turned back towards the staircase but hesitated, a hand clenching on the top of the railing. "What do you think of him, Isono?"
"Sir…?" Isono paused, but a moment later answered, to his entire satisfaction, "I like him, Sir. I have no reason not to think well of him."
Kaiba nodded and a moment later, he was gone.
He came back in the afternoon to pick up Mokuba and returned in the evening, having treated his little brother to a meal at his favorite restaurant where he had heard of friends and school assignments, of plans for the weekend and games they could play, but nothing of Seto. Even so, nothing was still better than an unpleasant something, and so Kaiba ascended the staircase with a sense of calm resignation that Mokuba had received his message and did his best to bear the idea with politeness. He found Isono just outside the door, sitting on a chair immersed in a cheap paperback.
"Isono?"
"Seto-sama." Isono promptly closed the book on his thumb to mark the page. "He was given medicine and has been sleeping since lunch." Kaiba gave a curt nod. "…I talked to your brother, and I believe he visited him, but has not told me any details."
Kaiba's heart gave a small leap; Mokuba's earlier silence suddenly felt like a slap to the face. He had seen them together before, how Mokuba tiptoed around him so painstakingly as though Seto were a monster, when he no longer feared his own brother who had been a monster. He had seen Seto's features darken with rejection, having been instructed to regard Mokuba very important and very dear to himself – a favor that Mokuba refused to return. Kaiba knew it pained him but had never seen nor heard Seto act on his pain: he observed and kept his boundaries well, something that could not be said of the younger Kaiba when he was feeling ungenerous. Did they talk? Did Mokuba hurt him? He knew, like some distant resonation of his own heart, that Seto would not lay a finger on his little brother, not even at the cost of his life.
"I will see him now," said Kaiba and after a barely audible knock, he opened the door. Sure enough, Seto was sound asleep, laying motionless under the covers with his face pressed to the pillow and his hair every which way. Kaiba sat down beside him, gingerly not to disturb his rest, watching his softened features fixed in ill but blissful peace. He seemed unusually gentle, vulnerable – an image Kaiba would have resented as his own but could not hate in this projected other, as though it were tolerable in anyone but himself. Perhaps, he thought, permissible in an other that was, in every other respect, quite perfect…
He found, on further inspection, a pitcher of fresh water and a small piece of paper on the nightstand. He plucked it up and unfolded it, staring at Mokuba's large, spiky scribbles. Get well soon.
Kaiba folded the note again and returned it to its resting place. His eyes settled on Seto once more and watching his soft breathing, the arches of his fingers and the black of his lashes, Kaiba could not help but think that he should very much like Mokuba to like him. Perhaps, if Mokuba liked him, he would not fear liking him so much.