Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh, the American School in Tokyo (AMSJ), and the Melanie C song are not mine. Now that we've established that...on with the story!

And so it begins...

I.

A knock.

"Mokuba?"

He didn't answer, but the door hinged open anyway.

"Kiyahasa is waiting with the helicopter."

The room was darkening rapidly in the twilight. He hadn't bothered turning on any of the lights, so his brother's form was backlit in the doorway. Mokuba's breath hitched.

"Reiko called twice."

Mokuba sat on his futon, knees tucked up to his chin. He seemed mindless of the damage he was doing to his tux.

"She's worried." Nisama's tone implied that it was he that was worried but dared not say so. Mokuba watched as Nisama entered the room. Everyone always watched when Nisama entered a room.

"Yeah...that I'll ditch her, and she'll have to go alone," Mokuba said.

He felt the futon shift as Nisama sat down next to him. He could feel the heat of Nisama's body, close enough to touch.

"I just find this so stupid." He tugged at his collar.

"You seemed happy enough when you and Reiko bought the tickets."

Mokuba twisted so he could stare up into his brother's eyes. "Everyone else was doing it. And I thought it could be fun, but now...everyone's hyping it up, and I feel nothing. I just don't understand."

He hadn't cried in years, but his voice was dangerously close to breaking.

"I'll call Reiko," Nisama offered. "Say you're sick."

Nisama never lied. Nisama thought you should follow through on what you said...or die trying.

Mokuba swallowed. Hard. Then pushed up, so he could stand. "No, it's all right. I'll go."

He watched as Nisama stood as well. "I don't want you to be unhappy—"

Mokuba fled the room.

II.

Seto didn't think Mokuba would home that evening. He didn't have first-hand knowledge of American prom night, but even he had seen enough American teenage films.

He had never regretted his decision to send Mokuba to the American School of Tokyo.

But Mokuba had looked so depressed. Dejected. Did Mokuba regret? Would Mokuba have rather gone to a normal high school? A more prestigious one? Or even local Domino High?

Seto hated having doubts.

He hated even more to be surprised, and so he scowled when he heard the front gate open at 1:15. He abandoned both his line of code and the spreadsheets on the Chinese gaming market.

Seto made it to the top of the stairs, but the doorbell never rang. Instead, his brother, tie in hand, swung the door open. His hair had been released from its neat tie, and it scattered around his face. He looked more than like his ten year old self than a seventeen year old, and Seto wondered if that had been the point.

Seto also hated thinking Mokuba was capable of guile.

"Nisama." Mokuba didn't say it so much as a greeting, more like an acknowledgement of a fact.

He had been crying.

Seto couldn't bring himself to ask how it went.

"I had a horrible time," Mokuba said quietly. "I stayed long enough for Reiko to get pictures."

Seto didn't remember going down the stairs, but suddenly he was just in front of Mokuba. He didn't dare touch him.

Mokuba's hand reached out, warm against his cheekbone. "It's okay, Nisama. I won't break." The foyer seemed to suck his words away, and Seto had to strain to hear him. Then a hint above a whisper, "Please..."

Seto hugged him. They weren't a touching family, so it was awkward, but Mokuba seemed to like it, relaxing instantly. He could feel the wetness on Mokuba's cheeks pressed against his chest, could feel the trembling in that small body.

"You don't have school tomorrow," he said brusquely. "We'll do something together. The two of us." Even though he had a board meetings and a finance strategy session.

He could feel Mokuba nod. Feel Mokuba's heartbeat. It wasn't good to be so close.

"Can I...can I...sleep with you tonight?" Mokuba didn't lift his head from Seto's chest.

Seto didn't want to say no. He didn't want Mokuba to be upset, ever. He wanted Mokuba to always be happy.

"All right."

They hadn't slept together since the night they had been on the Ishtar's barge. Mokuba had been eager to grow up, after that. He had even put all his stuffed animals in boxes, neatly labeled.

They lay there, in Seto's futon, sides not quite touching.

"I don't want to go away to university. Especially not the United States."

Seto didn't answer.

"No one can understand, and they laugh when I say I don't want to leave my nisama."

Mokuba's fingers latched onto Seto's forearm.

"I thought there must be something wrong with me. I thought I could grow up, just like them. I tried. I really did. But then...tonight...

"We're not like everyone else, are we, Nisama?"

Seto had tried so hard to let Mokuba be like everyone else.

"No, Mokuba," he said. "we're not like everyone else."

Mokuba shifted, so he was lying half over Seto's chest, face buried in the juncture between Seto's chin and shoulder. Seto could feel Mokuba's warm mouth.

III.

Mokuba woke up.

Nisama wasn't awake yet. Mokuba wondered if you could kiss someone awake, like they did in movies. But this wasn't a movie. This was he and Nisama, and so he settled for curving himself into Nisama's sleep-slack embrace and falling back asleep.

He woke to an empty futon. The clock read 8:15. Nisama was in the home office, then, taking calls.

He rose, cheeks heating as he looked at down at the futon, at the imprint of the two bodies.

Nisama didn't even look up as he ghosted in the doorway. Nisama always knew when he was about.

"I'll be done in a minute, Mokuba. I just want to send out a few emails."

Mokuba nodded, more to himself than anyone else. He entered the room, the sudden shock of hardwood floor on his bare feet making him shiver.

"Thank you for listening to me last night."

Nisama stopped typing. "I had no idea you were so unhappy. You should have told me sooner." It wasn't a reproach, and Mokuba didn't take it as one.

"You couldn't have done anything," Mokuba said. And it was true. "I had to figure it out for myself." He edged closer still to Nisama.

Nisama ignored the laptop completely and stared up at him. Mokuba didn't like being taller than Nisama, so he advanced: throwing a thigh over Nisama's lap as he joined his brother in the chair. Nisama smelled like yesterday's aftershave, the detergent last used on the futon, and underneath that spicy scent that had always been a part of Nisama's skin.

He pressed closer, hands twisting about Nisama's neck. He could feel Nisama's hands tentatively stroke his back, and he knew—he knew, and Nisama knew, and they both knew the other knew.