Tides In Their Grave
This is something I wrote at four in the morning, since I couldn't sleep and I've always wanted to do something like this. It's what I believe was going through Seto Kaiba's mind about everyone's favourite subject; Jounouchi Katsuya.
Disclaimer: I have no claim to any rights or characters from the Yu-Gi-Oh! franchise. I make no money from this; it's purely a fanmade story. Thanks.
No smut. Though there is shounen-ai (ie – boyxboy) you shouldn't really let that deter you.
Puppyshipping! (No fluff though; just mutual respect. And if that made you click the back button, I'm very disappointed.)
Contains character death and suicide.
Reviews, comments and messages are always appreciated!
Thanks,
zlae.
It was never hard to be on the computer; no one knew me as the CEO of a multi-million dollar company, and no one could be impressed by my success and wealth. On the computer you were who you wanted others to perceive you as, and whatever you said couldn't be forgotten. You could say what you thought without fear, since no one knew your identity. It was anonymous; it was the ideal haven for cowards such as myself.
That was where I met him. He didn't care about (what he believed to be) my self-proclaimed status; he didn't care that it was possible I was lying through my teeth.
My world was irrelevant to him; only the individual, myself, beckoned to his call.
It was through my unguided thoughts, documented by cold, plastic and pre-made letters, that I delivered what I always wanted so desperately to say. In this world, your hormones react to certain situations, and that was what I always believed. It was science; it was natural and it hadn't occurred to me.
I told myself I was just surprised when it did.
I wasn't; I knew exactly what had transpired.
And it terrified me.
With those sun-kissed hands of his, he tore at my seams and exposed my bloodied innards. He peeled off my protective layers, one by one, grimacing at the effort it took to unravel them. After all, why should a man have to hide from the very people whom he gave his unprotected thoughts?
I showed that same man my room once, and we did nothing within it. There was no lust or passion, and there was only uneasy tension.
It was like when you admitted feelings of comfort and belonging evoking from one person's presence that you notify them, and you wait for their anticipated reaction. But then doubt weighs you down, and what had seemed like an excellent idea only moments ago was now rendered foolish, and whatever you had said you wished you could take back.
But then they admit the reciprocation of your feelings and there's a sense of hope blossoming in your chest.
But there was no hope for us; we could not run away and leave without a second thought.
Because I was Seto Kaiba, and my world consisted of thoughts, over-analysis and structure.
But then he came by like a hurricane, and he twisted everything ways they shouldn't be able to bend.
What had they called that feeling? It's been so long since I've heard the word used genuinely and in the correct context, that I sometimes doubt the perpetrator's intentions.
'Perpetrator'.
You'd think I was accusing someone.
You were right.
I was cursing that sandy-haired boy that had complicated my previously scheduled life.
When my hand closed around the knob leading to my room, I had held my breath as the door swung open on well-greased hinges. That was the night we were going to lose ourselves in each other. I had planned it over and over in my mind, analysing it and re-analysing it, making sure everything would be perfect. It was all part of the courting strategy.
A subtle touch; a fleeting glance. I had done my research, and no one ever makes Seto Kaiba feel incompetent.
That was what I told myself, even as I lay like a toy in his unsuspecting palms. He could've dissected me; could've torn at my metallic shell with his fingers like talons, to gaze upon my wiring and circuits. We could've revelled in the feeling of belonging we provided to each other. But maybe it was that fear gnawing the inside of him at the prospect of being electrocuted that halted him. Maybe it was the notion of finding such unwanted and realistic truth.
So he did nothing except grip me tighter in his palms.
It seemed that no one – not even myself – knew how to approach me; I was beyond the use of even simple entertainment. Did that mean that my unending hours of work were all for naught? Were my continuous efforts at company expansion ignored and ridiculed?
My blood boiled.
I did not hear Mokuba's frantic pounding on the door.
When that white door opened to Jounouchi and myself, all I could do was hold my breath. No one beside myself had been in this room ever since. The maids were not permitted to clean here; it was off limits to Mokuba for reasons I could not explain. His foot inched forward, and now he too had bore witness to this room.
I could affiliate this room with my mind, then; all I could imagine was the only other intruder known as Jounouchi infiltrating it, and I watched entranced as his shoulder blades shifted when he moved.
He was confused; I knew it.
His eyes spoke questions. 'Why bring me here? Whose room is this? Why is it so empty?' I gave him no response.
All that occupied this room was a bed I didn't dare call my own. There were no lights, no fans; no other furniture. It was even devoid of dust. Light barely found its way into this room, and so the shadows were darker. Everything was white and pristine, and I was reminded so strongly of a hospital that I shivered.
He opened his mouth to speak in the empty room, where his every word would echo. It was this one room that I would not be able to tolerate. Every word he was going to speak would be repeated again and again, to reverberate in my eardrums like a broken record. And that realisation tore at me.
I still couldn't do it; I couldn't show him my newfound trust. Even I was unfamiliar with it.
And to lay; to even speak with the man in the room that had once belonged to my abusive father seemed shockingly inhumane. Gozaburo Kaiba was a beast wearing human skin that he had peeled off from his living victim. He was the epitome of a wolf wearing sheep clothing.
It was rather strange to think of someone else as inhumane for once, since I was so familiar with the looks of hatred and disgust I received. I welcomed them, even.
Shock and disgust were easier to deal with; I could relate to those feelings.
But there was one I couldn't tolerate.
It was the unending look of acceptance and pity in Jounouchi's perceptive eyes.
There have been so many times when I had to check that I was really human. I had to reassure myself that my pale skin had not become transparent, cold and sharp like glass. I had to make sure that he couldn't see through me.
If he did, he would familiarise himself with my tactics; he'd call my bluffs and fold when he knew he didn't have a good enough hand. He'd grow tired of our games and squabbles that never seemed to differentiate.
And I couldn't let that happen.
He was the first mystery I had encountered in a long time with actual intentions of exposing him. He intrigued me, and I knew he saw me as a challenge.
Perhaps all we saw in each other was the desperation and want to be completed, that we had recognised such weakness in each other.
And we were being selfish; trying to complete one another for a sense of self-fulfilment.
But I wasn't sure that he wouldn't just give up and go complete a less challenging puzzle. Some people don't like competition.
But the completion of me that was his challenge was hardly even fair.
There were so many facades that formed me that I couldn't even differentiate them from each other. They formed a burning pile with a makeshift sign on it, and that sign was titled 'waste' in crude, jagged letters.
How could this man put me back together, when he had only gotten small glimpses of the true me through written speech presented on a monitor you could obtain anywhere?
If this man – the one form of true happiness I had encountered since Mokuba – grew tired of me, I would be in tatters.
I checked again, I was still physically human. He hadn't exposed me completely. Yet.
It just took me so long to realise that someone else in this hateful world could understand me.
And only once I realised was it too late.
"Seto!" Mokuba screeched from the corridor, pounding on the door that refused to open up to anyone besides myself and Jounouchi.
For everyone else, it did quite the opposite; it kept them out.
And this was where I craved my seclusion; hiding away in the room I call my mind. This deliberately empty room was just my brain personified, but both results were the same. I would be alone on a bed you were supposed to share with a lover, huddled and ignoring any acknowledgment involving the presumed reality.
Jounouchi wasn't in this world anymore; he only lived on through my mind that creates this room.
My room had a new piece of furniture in it, for the first time in years.
It was the only picture of Jounouchi I had and was able to remember through our time together. My weak mind had blocked out most parts to avoid me breaking even more apart.
His shoes were dirtied and scruffy, his jeans were faded and holes adorned the leg sockets. The shirt he was wearing was a light blue, with random patterns of silver and black printed on it. His smile was bright and happy, and I tried everything I could later that day to get a facsimile of that grin. His eyes were closed and the mop of his sandy-blonde hair fell down just past his shoulders. But the thing that stood out the most was his hands. In one he clutched a water gun resembling a pistol, and in the other he held my hand. His was sun-kissed and golden-brown, whereas mine was washed out and pale.
He was so gorgeous and vibrant, and I never had time to tell him. I had cut myself out of the picture; I didn't want my stoic, expressionless self tainting a photo containing such raw emotion.
Every day I wonder what Jounouchi saw in me. I was a skeletal mess with a conflicting mind and trust issues; I was cold and calculating, and worked with the increasingly developing technology as it was the closest thing in this world I could identify myself with. I was no prize; I could admit that easily.
But still he joined me for those few moments of solitude we shared together, and already I know that he has made me into a better person. He could affect someone's actions so positively and quickly, that I thought I was experiencing the bitter sting of jealousy by such an (unknowingly) influential person.
Of course, now I am past my ignorance. I now know what I felt wasn't jealousy by the way he could so easily display his emotions without a fear of being judged, nor was it uneasiness because of the way he could remove my many masks so easily.
No, it was something else. Something I'd never experienced before.
It was admiration; it was respect.
If I left it there I would never give this man the recognition he deserves, for it seems that no one can understand the drastic impact he imposed on my mind.
No, I should be honest with myself. If I couldn't admit this to my own mind, I'd never be able to tell stories of such a strange man with stars in my eyes.
So as I sit with an impatient and worried brother attempting to catch my attention, let me freely admit that this feeling contained within the deepest chambers of my supposedly impenetrable heart was what some might dare call love.
And I'd never told him.
I never told him how much he affected me; how much I craved his strong attitude.
Because that would mean I was weak.
And Jounouchi had always known how to get under my skin.
I raised a wine glass then; my smallest finger twitched and my eyes were hard and unwavering.
I poured a substance in, and Mokuba continued to pound on the door.
He must know of my attempt to escape this world. He'll be fine; he's become a capable, admirable young man. He would've made our parents proud.
"For you," I whispered, downing it in one go.
I let myself go to the haze of alcohol, and when I closed my tired eyes I imagined I could feel his lips pressed against mine.
And they were smiling.
end.