"If anyone asks, this was your idea."

"But nii-sama," Mokuba protested, "You never let anyone take credit for one of your brilliant ideas."

"This was not a brilliant idea." Seto seethed, then turned over his shoulder to glare at Mokuba. "Stop smiling."

Mokuba not only refused to stop smiling, but began to giggle softly under his breath. Seto's scowl deepened. "This is not funny," he muttered, hand tightening around the handle of his santoku and chopping speed increasing considerably.

"You don't think it's even a little funny?"

"Am I laughing?"

Mokuba directed his scrutiny away from his sizzling blocks of tofu and towards his brother—his clothes ironed into rigid plates of cotton and leather, jaw clenched, engulfed by an alarmingly large pile of aggressively axed mushrooms.

"No."

"So what exactly gives you the impression that I find any aspect of this to be in any way humorous?"

Mokuba sighed and rolled his eyes. "Okay, okay, I take it back—this is all very serious." He giggled again. "I'm not taking the fall for you though—if someone asks you have to be able to explain it yourself."

Seto emitted a low growl somewhere in the back of his throat, succeeding only in eliciting more laughter from Mokuba.

"Seto," Mokuba began gently, "do you need my help?"

"What?! No. Of course not."

Mokuba leaned against his brother's shoulder, careful to avoid the shooting chunks of mushroom that were darting through the air around them like shards of smoldering shrapnel. "I think you need my help. Here—" he gently pried Seto's hand away from the knife handle and pulled him towards the bar stools next to the kitchen island. "Just let the mushrooms recover for a minute and sit down."

Seto's face darkened into a scowl, but he grudgingly complied.

"Good! Now, tell me how your day was."

Seto narrowed his eyes. "Why are you asking? You were with me all day."

"Just pretend."

"Why?"

Mokuba sighed in exasperation. "We're making conversation! That's what you do." Seto remained rigid and silent. "Just answer the question, nii-sama."

"No."

Mokuba sighed and stomped his foot. "You're impossible."

"I know how to converse, Mokuba."

"Not outside of business! Not without offending everyone!"

"I talk to you."

"One data point." He extended his index finger towards Seto's face to emphasize his argument. "Not enough evidence to draw a rigorous conclusion." He paused. "You're freaking out and you know that I'm right, and you're going to be miserable all night if you don't get comfortable with it now."

Seto rolled his eyes. "Fine."

"So answer the question."

"I did."

Mokuba pursed his lips. "Elaborate."

"It was fine."

The two glared at each other for a moment.

"This isn't a game, nii-sama," Mokuba replied quietly. "I know you're trying, but there's no point in putting forth a little effort if you're not willing to go all the way."

Seto scoffed. "Since when did you become so didactic. I thought that's what Atem was for."

"Well, someone has to step in now that he's gone." He smiled. "Do you want me to go first?"

Seto shrugged. "Fine whatever."

Mokuba's eyes lit up. "Well, pretty much every day during summer vacation is better than average, so that's a good start. Though, having to go to work when the weather's so nice is…not the best. But—" he paused for dramatic effect, "I think that the best part of the day hasn't happened yet."

"You think so."

"Yup—and you better believe it too, or else you're not going to be a very good host."

"And you're not going to be a very good chef if you let the tofu burn."

"Oh!" Mokuba rushed over to the burner where his tofu blocks were violently sizzling. "You're not off the hook, though!" He called over his shoulder as he fumbled with the frying pan. "I still want to hear about your day."

Seto sighed and leaned against the counter, idly turning a fragment of mushroom between his fingers. "Well…I went to the market…"

"Good, good."

"And went to work."

"Yes."

"And now I'm here."

"Hey, they're done!" Mokuba exclaimed triumphantly as he held his pan of fried tofu under Seto's nose. "What do I do now?"

"Remove the oil." He paused for a moment, then continued dryly. "So how did I do?"

Mokuba bit his bottom lip. "Uh…good!"

"Don't patronize me."

"Maybe if we tried a different topic?" He cupped his chin in his palm and tilted his head to the side. "What was the last cool thing that you did?"

"The last what?"

"I don't know," he turned his attention to the gently simmering saucepan of soymilk. "The last thing you did that you're proud of—that was important to you."

Seto stared at the faces in his mushrooms. "I have no idea."

"Well," Mokuba replied, doing his best to sound optimistic, "maybe you should think about it. And start slicing the beef—unless you want dinner to be late."

Seto seethed but obeyed his brother's directions, toiling largely in vain to quiet the reeling in his head with the smooth rhythm of his knife against the worn wooden cutting board. The two continued their work in silence, allowing their thoughts to be enveloped in billows of thick, sweet steam and the soothing hum of softly bubbling soy milk.

That was, until it came time to set the table. Mokuba vacillated on the threshold of the kitchen door, peering down the hallway leading to the dining room that—even when fully illuminated—seemed to wallow in an impenetrable dourness and gloom.

"Remind me never to take advice from you," Seto scoffed as he noticed Mokuba's trepidation. "At least I don't cower in fear at empty hallways."

"That doesn't invalidate my argument!"

"Hn. It certainly proves you're no pinnacle of daring."

Mokuba shot a defiant glare over his shoulder, pushed out his chin, and began to march down the hall—clutching the stack of chargers tightly against his chest.

As Mokuba's footsteps died in the distance, Seto cautiously peered around the kitchen. He heard only the maddening drone of silence—wide, vacant, empty—felt only the flat expanse of floor beneath his feet and the santoku—still gripped firmly, resolutely, in his fist. He gritted his teeth and roughly kneaded the tightness in his chest. "I wish you would stop pushing me," he whispered, wondering—even as the words fell—whether he really meant it.

"I wanted to apologize for what I said the last time we met—" she paused. "Can I help you with anything? I hate to sit around feeling useless."

Seto smirked. "I think I can handle it," he replied dryly. "Though if feeling useless was such a concern for you, you could have easily avoided the situation entirely by not arriving twenty minutes early. Now, are you actually going to apologize, or continue talking about how badly you wanted to?"

Isis frowned. "I was anticipating heavier traffic."

Seto laughed—a short, caustic bark. "Of course you were." Having arranged the dishes to his satisfaction, he sat across from her at the dining table, leaning as far back in his chair as the antique polished mahogany would allow. "To tell the truth, I did consider your suggestion. But the law moves slowly—it's ancient and inefficient and easily biased. I've never trusted those worthless bureaucrats to handle anything important. Plus," he added gruffly, "I'd rather not be laughed out of my job trying to explain to a bunch of idiot lawyers that I'd rather not do business with Industrial Illusions because its president trapped the souls of Mokuba and I in playing cards."

"So you intend to do nothing?" She paused, pinching her lips. "He will seek you out—if he has to."

"Hn. If there's going to be a fight then he's going to have to ask for it." He smirked. "But that doesn't mean that I'm not going to prepare myself."

"I suppose I shouldn't have expected anything else."

He chuckled. "It's as if you didn't know me at all."

She smiled. "How is Mokuba?"

Seto's jaw stiffened slightly. "Fine."

"You talked with him?"

He nodded. "He had noticed several…irregularities over the years, obviously—Yuugi's mood swings, the alarmingly high number of people put into comas by playing card games—he told me that he had suspected it had something to do with Pegasus or his associates, some plot they had to discredit us." He sighed. "On the whole he accepted the magical-ancient-Egyptian-spirits-traveling-through-time-to-save-the-world-from-the-clutches-of-evil explanation much more easily than I did."

"You did set the bar fairly low."

Seto crossed his arms and frowned at the table. "How is…your brother."

"Malik is doing well. Thank you for asking." She sipped her tea, ignoring the fact that it was still uncomfortably warm. "Just as the pharaoh's spirit has finally found peace—he too now has an opportunity to rest." She smiled. "He seems to be adjusting to his newfound freedoms quite readily."

Seto nodded stiffly. "Okay."

"Not that the shadows of the past can dissipate over night, but he appears to be experiencing a new dawn—so to speak. It's quite comforting to see."

"Good."

"About you I now know better than to ask."

Seto shrugged. "There's nothing to say."

Isis raised an eyebrow, but chose to remain silent.

"All I'm saying is don't eat anything that you haven't seen Mokuba eat first."

Anzu rolled her eyes. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm just kidding! Well, half-kidding. You never know with Kaiba. I mean, you haven't forgotten the spaghetti thing, right?"

"Weren't you just over here last week? And he didn't try to kill you then, did he?"

"He looked like he was considering it by the time I left."

"If that's the case, I'm sure you had no one to blame for it but yourself."

"Don't you think this is just a little bit suspicious?"

"People change, Katsuya," Shizuka chided him.

Anzu scowled and was about to scold Jounouchi further when the door in front of them abruptly swung open—Yuugi's hand still hovering above the knocker.

"You do realize I can hear everything you're saying, right?"

"Hi Kaiba-kun! Thanks for inviting us over."

"Yuugi." Seto nodded "And for your information," he continued, directing his attention towards Jounouchi, "I hadn't been planning on poisoning on you, but I believe I may now be starting to reconsider."

"Great, now I feel way better," Jounouchi muttered as they stepped into the foyer.

"You two take three steps back for every two forward, don't you?" Shizuka asked, giggling at her brother's glare.

"He just enjoys being melodramatic." Anzu replied dismissively.

"I do not!"

The four followed Seto through the house, as small and dark against the empty white expanse of the Kaiba mansion's bare walls as a cluster of debris floating through the aching blackness of space. Even since Jounouchi's visit, the rooms had become considerably more bare—stripped of their protective layers of cardboard boxes, bubble wrap, and packing tape and now almost entirely devoid of furniture, entering each room felt eerily akin to stepping into an empty coffin that was fervently hunting fresh prey.

"Mokuba," Seto called as they entered the dining room, "our guests are here."

Of all the pairs of eyes glowing in the room, the hardest for Seto to ignore were Mokuba's. Should he have the audacity to lapse into silence for longer than six and a half minutes (he was sure Mokuba was timing just as closely as he was), Mokuba—whose face had just moments ago been bright and bubbly—would turn to him tersely, shooting a stony cold glare that sent daggers digging into Seto's chest. Though no words passed between them, both Kaiba brothers had a talent for expounding volumes of meaning with a minimum of syllables. Should Seto choose to ignore his brother's warning, the glares would continue at thirty second intervals until Seto found a way—no matter how inconsequential—to contribute constructively to the conversation. A non-constructive contribution was met with a swift kick to his shins.

Seto had the feeling that he would be sporting several conspicuous bruises on his lower legs by the end of the evening. Mokuba had always had a tendency to underestimate his own strength.

"The majority of the pieces in the Domino Museum will be replaced with replications. I'm currently working with Industrial Illusions to transport the originals back to their home in Egypt."

"All of them are going back?"

Isis nodded. "The bigger pieces; Pegasus would have preferred that they remain in Domino, but ultimately the museum decided that they weren't in the financial state to justify the permanent acquisition of the originals. The replications were made several years ago and are significantly less difficult to maintain."

Yuugi nodded morosely. "It won't feel the same, though—will it?"

"You know it won't make a difference now," Seto cut it. Yuugi turned to him, a kind of muted shock and horror welling behind his eyes. "Yuugi," he continued, "when you paid your little visit to the museum—you didn't feel a whole lot, did you?"

When Yuugi's only response was an aghast expression, Seto continued. "You made your pilgrimage to this giant rock—this structure that has served as the doorway to your destiny, and—tell me—didn't you look at it and feel—nothing at all?"

"Kaiba—" someone began to protest—he didn't care who. Seto merely shrugged. "He isn't trying to deny it." An icy, challenging tone clung to the contours of his voice, as if daring the others at the table to defy him. He noted with a gleam of triumph that Mokuba hadn't determined that this comment was worthy of an assault on his shins. "So what difference does it make," he continued more quietly, "if the thing you see is real or fake? What difference does it make if it exists at all?"

For a moment the room was completely silent. Then everyone began to talk at once.

"How can you say that!?"

"It does matter—"

"It's a priceless artifact—"

"It's an artifact from a time that is no longer relevant," Seto interjected. "No one is ever going to need to look at those tablets ever again. They've served their purpose and now they're irrelevant. Worthless."

"I can see you're not one to be swayed by arguments of sentimentality," Isis responded.

Seto eyed her suspiciously. "Not in this case, no."

"And what, then, would you say to Yuugi—who is seeking a tangible way to maintain an emotional connection with this significant period of his life?"

"Stop trying." He sighed. "Look: Yuugi had a spirit living inside his head, and now he doesn't. There's no tangible way to connect with a spirit—that's just not going to happen."

Seto took solace in the silence now. The silence was the bright, fresh clarity of a clear, brisk morning. It was the smooth, supple current of night that flowed between the stars and polished the moon. It was clearing the cobwebs and echoes and splinters from his mind and finally having space to let his thoughts roam and wander.

Mokuba was almost certainly timing him. He knew exactly how much time it took to lay out the manju, and certainly would not hesitate to barrel down into his bunker and drag him back to the battlefield the moment he began to suspect that Seto was stalling. But for now he was willing to risk the threat of his brother's wrath if it bought him a few moments of serenity.

He tried to shake the grip of his headache; the pressure bearing down on the backs of his eyes only seemed to sharpen. The lights in the kitchen seemed to scream into him; the pale sweet smell of the manju was sending acid down his throat; the counters, floor, walls were pressing deep into him, tightening their grasp on his veins and sending his heart racing.

"Kaiba-kun…are you okay?"

"Fine." He gasped. "What do you want."

"Mokuba-kun suggested I help you set up the dessert."

Seto snorted, struggling to soothe out the ragged tremor in his voice. "So he sent a mercenary."

"Sorry?"

He shook his head. "It's nothing. I don't need your help."

To his chagrin, Yuugi stepped closer. "Manju! These look so good! Did you make them?"

He nodded. "Mokuba and I did, yes."

"Wow!" Yuugi exclaimed, cradling one of the pale pink dumplings in his palm, careful not to disturb the thin film of rice powder on the surface. "So I was right to try to recruit you when you came over." When Seto didn't respond, he continued. "What's inside? I can't wait to try one."

Seto shrugged. "Go ahead."

Yuugi ate cautiously and in silence, never taking his eyes from the shadow-stricken figure by his side.

"Yuugi—"

"Yes?"

"Nevermind."

Yuugi continued speaking between bites. "You know, I have the same problem as you. I love playing games and having fun, but in a room full of people I can't hear my own thoughts after a while. Sometimes you just have to take a break for a moment, it helps put everything back in perspective."

"That is not my problem," Seto growled.

Yuugi shrugged. "Different diagnosis, same symptoms. I know why you're doing this, though. All this." He gestured to the platter of manju. "I've felt the same impulse, I guess. When you've broken away from everything else, the only thing you have left is to break away from yourself. It's always made me feel really excited to accomplish something that I never thought I would be capable of. These are really good, by the way." He snatched another manju from the platter and turned to leave.

"Yuugi."

"Yes?"

"Thanks."

"Of course, Kaiba-kun!" He started back down the hall towards the dining room.

"Yuugi."

"Yes?"

"It's not coming back, is it? That—feeling."

Yuugi smiled sadly. "No, I don't think so. You were right, the tablet in the museum is just a stone now." His eyes took on a distant, dreamy expression, as if they were still soaking in scenes of Egyptian battlefields and majestic monsters.

"And that's…okay with you?"

A small tremor passed through Yuugi's body. "I've been better," he replied, voice light but shaking slightly. "It's strange feeling so alone, after all that has happened," he laughed. "Funny to imagine it being hard to not share your body with an Egyptian spirit." His hand traveled up his chest, resting on the ghost of the Millennium Puzzle. "As hard as it is at times, I try to see this as an opportunity. We've solved the mystery of the pharaoh's identity, and now we can work on the mysteries of ourselves."

Once Yuugi had evaporated into the darkness, Seto glared—eyes bitter and stormy—at the spot where he had stood. "Why does everyone I know insist on spewing this self-actualizing bullshit."

The title for this chapter comes from the song Nothing Without You by Vienna Teng