I had, initially, intended for the Seto's Birthday Chapter™ to take only one installment to complete. Shows what I know. There's a lot to cover here, and it's going to take at least two chapters to fully encompass it.

I don't remember when I decided that this story was going to be written entirely in present tense, as opposed to the much more traditional past, but maybe that's because so much of this story flies in the face of tradition.

Or maybe I'm just looking too deeply into an ultimately arbitrary style choice.

Although, I'm not sure it's arbitrary at all.

1.

Ellie McAllister sits outside at various, seemingly random spots at night, waiting to get tired. It's a habit she picked up long before she met with the Yagami siblings and sang them to sleep with an old ballad she'd picked up on KXAB 106.7: Today's Hits, Without the Crying. She isn't sure why she does it, but perhaps there's just something romantic about sitting on surfaces you're not supposed to sit on, in places you're not supposed to be. The floor, curbs, dumpsters. Fire escapes.

Hallways outside the interim director's office.

". . . Yes. No, of course, I understand," Director Dan is saying. "But see, here's the thing. Look—trust me on this. It's a bad idea. These are kids. They aren't going to have the resources to get him anything. Most of them, anyway. There might be a couple of—just, it'd be better for them if we just set up the party as a surprise to everyone. Well, except Seto, probably. I'm sure he's figured out by now."

Ellie leans back and stares at the overhang above her head.

What's this, now?

"Because he's smarter than most of the people that work here. You can't keep a secret from him, not for long. Anyway, that's not the point. Do you understand? We can't tell the other kids—well, okay, can't is the wrong word, but we shouldn't. Some, at least, will feel bad that they don't have any way of buying him a gift. Just let them have the day. Same as him. Let's not have any more awkwardness than we're bound to have already. O-Okay. Okay, yes. Thank you. Fine. I suppose that means I'll see you in a few days. All right. Good night, Mister Crawford."

Ellie hears shuffling, clicking, a bang. Dan is still cursing under his breath as he comes out of his office, looking tired and about ten-thousand percent done with life in general. When he spies one of his problem children sitting outside, eavesdropping, he does a remarkable job of hiding his displeasure.

"And what are you doing up?" he asks idly. Entirely exasperated, probably doesn't care, but has to ask because it's his job.

Ellie respects this a lot more than anyone might expect. She really does.

She offers an exaggerated shrug with a twinkle in her eye. "Nuttin'. What about you, Mister Director, sir? A private tryst? You never struck me as the type to be mooning after the nouveau riche, but I guess he does look rather dashing. That hair."

Dan sighs, rolls his eyes, and stuffs his hands into his pockets. "Mm-hm. Right." He waits a beat. "He's dreamy, all right. Real snappy dresser, too. But I doubt he'd go for a valley girl like me."

Ellie snickers. Definitely an upgrade over the last owner of this office.

"What's this about Yagami?" she asks suddenly.

"So you were listening in. Scandalous."

"Yeah, yeah, I've already got detention tomorrow. What's going on? Is Yagami's birthday soon?"

"Saturday."

Ellie blinks, stares, and quickly reflects on how little she usually cares about birthdays. But this one . . . for some reason it's different, and a soft kind of anger rises up in her. Why'd the little snot never say anything? Why'd the bigger snots in suits and fake leather shoes never say anything?

"Daddy and his new boyfriend are keeping secrets from us," Ellie says, more sharply than before. "You're telling me I've got three days to find a gift for that snarky little wunderkind?"

"Listen to you. Practically multilingual. You have been paying attention in class lately."

"Got a friend, keeps telling me to expand my vocabulary. Won't shut up about it." Ellie heaves a sigh of her own and stands up. She digs into her jacket pockets, pulls out six dollars and seventy-three cents.

Dan watches her silently.

She glares at her meager fortune. ". . . Fuck."

"I've been needing someone to help me sift through Kelvin's old records," Dan says slowly. "Clearing out boxes, helping me clean out my new office, mostly. Looks like I'll be in this chair longer than I thought. May's well make the space my own." Ellie stares at him. "I mean, if you really want to get him something . . ."

Ellie crosses her arms and twists her face up into something resembling interest.

". . . All right. I'll take your blood money."

2.

"I'm busy, Croquet."

The one thing Croquet can't fault with the master's decision to make his time at the old orphanage into one of his chief pastimes is, quite simply, that it puts him in a good mood. Pegasus Crawford is never more engaged, never more alive, than when he's playing a game. And to Pegasus Crawford, there is no greater game than social discourse.

It's been a lot longer than Croquet would want to admit—given his general stance on The Adoption Project™—since the last time he's heard the master's voice take on so much venom.

"Of course, sir," Croquet says, bowing his head. "I would not disturb you if it weren't necessary. Mister Gabrielli is here. He's . . . not happy."

Pegasus draws in a steadying breath, stands from behind his desk, and gestures sharply with one hand. "I will see him." He hands a sheet of paper to Croquet as he leaves the room. "Take this to Patrick. I need the items on this list before sunset tonight."

Croquet bows again. "Of course, sir."

Pegasus stalks through his central second-floor hallway toward the stairs. Where other, more traditional estates would display framed pieces of Renaissance-era artwork—classic pieces of taste and refinement—Pegasus has opted to frame animation cels and autographed sketches from any number of artists, from the highest-profile professionals to the most obscure enthusiasts.

"Art's highest potential can never come from some high-handed, upfront desire to live forever, nor to change society," Pegasus murmurs low under his breath, as he passes below a watercolor portrait of his own Thousand Dragon, facing off against Dirk the Daring from Dragon's Lair.

Seto Yagami isn't the only boy who remembers the lessons taught to him at his mother's pretty knee.

"The truest height of art comes from whatever it can summon from anyone who looks at it. Does it bring joy? Does it stir passion? Do the people who see it come away with different expressions on their faces? If not, then throw it out. Don't give it time, don't give it a pass, and certainly don't hang it on your wall. It doesn't matter how good it is, or what it symbolizes. Art that fades into the background is the worst kind of distraction."

Pegasus descends to his ground floor parlor thinking of his mother, and this has done nothing to curb the fire in his right eye, nor the death-like chill in his left. If anything, it's heightened both.

Abele Gabrielli is wearing indignant rage like cheap perfume. He shoots to his feet and puffs out like a schoolboy playing at drill sergeant. "A phone call?" he snarls. "A fifteen-second fucking phone call?!"

"You should be honored," Pegasus says, without the faintest trace of his usual mirth. "I usually don't make double digits. I much prefer face-to-face correspondence. Is there a problem you would like to voice, Abele?"

"A . . . a problem? A problem?!"

Why do angry people take such pleasure in repeating themselves?

Pegasus slips his hands into his pockets and stands easy against his mentor's fury. "I don't intend to engage in conversation with you unless you can put words to the grievance you so clearly have against me right now. So, I will ask again: is there a problem you would like to voice, Abele?"

Gabrielli sputters, stammers, deflates. He is closing in on his fiftieth birthday. His hair is falling out, making his slate-colored mustache all the more prominent. His skin is splotchy, like his attitude. He has no patience, nor tolerance, for upstarts. But all the same, he cannot pretend that he is not intimidated by his old protégé. He is painfully aware that he is on foreign turf, within walls that do not belong to him.

He expected the master of this estate to scrape and simper, like he did when he was sixteen. Pegasus's cool detachment has him reeling.

What a difference three years and a lost eye—and a lost bride—can make.

"We've had this meeting on the books for months. We agreed on the twenty-fifth. And now? After I've rearranged every piece of scheduling I had for the past six weeks to accommodate you, you back out? For a birthday party?!"

"I intend to make this boy my son," Pegasus says candidly. "Within the year, his name will be Crawford. It would be the height of indecency for me to treat him as any less worthy of my attention now than he will be when he is mine."

Gabrielli stares. ". . . You're seriously telling me that a gutter rat from a backwoods orphanage is more deserving of your attention than I? Have you forgotten all I've done for you?!"

"I will never forget what you've done," Pegasus says, and the tone of his voice—flat, cold, somehow grey—stops Gabrielli short. "I will never forget that you gave me a chance when no one else would. I will never forget that you spent so much of your fortune to turn Industrial Illusions into a pillar of my industry. And I will never forget that the first time we discussed my chosen heir to the legacy you so graciously helped me to build . . . you chose to dismiss him, demean him, and declare just how much more important than him you should be. Directly to my face."

Gabrielli takes an involuntary step back.

Pegasus takes a specifically voluntary step forward. "I invite you to find an act more insulting than that."

"I . . . think you misunderstand something here, boy. I hope you're not going to compare insults with me. Or have you forgotten our arrange—"

That telltale flash of gold.

Another stumbling step back.

Another resolute step forward.

Pegasus still isn't grinning. "You seem under the impression that you're the one in power here." He glances at his right hand, picks at something that's managed to get stuck underneath a fingernail. He eyes his adversary with an idle sort of interest; the same he would level on a fascinating insect. He eventually calls out: "Croquet!"

The man appears in the room as though summoned directly by the sound of his name. "Sir?"

"There's been some mistake," Pegasus says. "I do not meet privately with the arrogant, nor the insensitive, nor the stupid." He turns his back on an old friend. He is not even cutting his losses; the asset known as Abele Gabrielli never existed. "I don't believe this man and I have met. Escort him off the grounds. If he tries anything untoward, do him the courtesy of teaching him the manners his parents so obviously never bothered with."

The master heads back toward the stairs.

"You—do you have any idea what you're doing?! Crawford! Don't be an idiot! Don't you dare turn your back on me!"

Pegasus stops. Turns his head. "Did you misunderstand something? You can clearly see that I already have." He turns away; he doesn't have to look to know that Croquet has drawn his sidearm. "Get out."

He finally finds a smile, when he hears the declamatory slam of his front doors.

On the way back to his private quarters, Pegasus spies a beautiful young woman with jet-black hair in his peripheral vision.

She says, "Now we're getting somewhere."

3.

"Seto . . . wake up, sleepyhead."

For a blinding moment, before his eyes open and the real world crashes in, Seto thinks his mother is here. She's here, she's back, and he can't wait to tell her so many things—but then he does open his eyes.

It's Missus Mutou, kneeling by his bed. She's smiling at him. Seto blinks owlishly, and does his best to curb his crushing disappointment. He forces a smile onto his face and says "Good morning" because he's supposed to. He turns to the side, expecting to find his brother curled up next to him, but Mokuba's gone.

Before raw panic can tear its way through Seto like a beast from his nightmares, he feels a strong hand on his shoulder. "He's fine," Missus Mutou says gently. "Mokuba's just fine. He's off with Mister Elliot. I'm sure he'll back in just a minute."

Seto rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, waiting for his heart to slow down. "Why are you here so early?" he asks.

"Early?" Missus Mutou repeats, chuckling. "It's after ten, sweetheart. Yugi and Téa are in the backyard, helping set everything up. It's a big day, Seto. You've had eleven of your own birthdays. But they've only had one so far. C'mon, now. Sit up. It sounds like someone's coming."

Seto shuts his eyes hard against the fatigue—and everything else—while he shakes his head and adjusts himself so that his back is leaning against the wall. A long moment later, he watches as Dan guides Mokuba into the room. The younger Yagami sibling is laboriously carrying a tray loaded down with just about every breakfast food known to humankind. Dan is carrying a tea kettle in one hand, a saucer and cup in the other.

"Birf-daaay!" Mokuba sings out as he sets the tray over his brother's lap. "Birf-day!" Then he giggles, steps back, and sways around with his hands clasped in front of him.

Seto's smile is real now. He can't help it. "Thank you, Mokie."

Mokuba reaches into one of his tiny pockets and pulls out a handful of confetti, which he throws into the air with a wordless exclamation of joy. Seto laughs—again, he can't help it—and picks up his fork.

"Turns out, Mokuba doesn't know what your favorite breakfast is," Dan says. "So, he asked Frank if he could make you everything he likes. Thought that counts, right?" He leans down, sets the cup and saucer on one corner of the tray, and pours some tea. "I know you're not into this kind of thing, but . . . happy birthday, Seto."

". . . Thank you, Mister Elliot."

Seto eats the oatmeal, the sliced honeydew, and has a few bites of the French toast. With a glance at Missus Mutou, Dan heads out of the room. She follows him. Seto realizes with some surprise that, with their exit, he's alone in the room with his brother. David and Ollie are nowhere to be found, even though they usually sleep 'til noon on weekends.

"Come here," Seto says after a while. "I can't eat all this. You'll have to help me." Mokuba clambers up onto the bed and attacks the tray without any further prompting. After some quiet reflection, Seto ruffles his brother's hair and kisses the top of his head. "Love you, Mokie. I love you."

Mokuba looks up, turns, and offers a lopsided little grin. He leans over and kisses Seto's cheek. Seto laughs again as he wipes crumbs and maple syrup off his face. He hugs the boy close, trying to bury the hard, sharp feelings that are still nestled deep inside his memory. Missus Mutou, and Yugi, and Téa and Mokuba and Dan and Mister Crawford—they all went to a lot of trouble to make the day special. Seto's usual rituals for Saturday, drinking too much caffeine and reading math textbooks until his eyes feel like they're bleeding, aren't going to cut it this time.

Once Seto has extricated himself from his breakfast and has dressed properly, he heads outside to find Dan and Missus Mutou both standing vigil outside the door, like bodyguards. Mokuba throws himself out of the room and pushes against his brother's side, with a death-grip on Seto's hand. He isn't about to let the grown-ups forget his place.

The front yard, where everyone usually congregates, is basically deserted. Seto spies David Whittaker, alone, kicking and tossing a basketball around and looking sulky like always. He's dressed in an outfit that Seto has never seen, but it looks a lot nicer than what he usually wears. His shoes are particularly impressive.

Seto files this information away.

He's led out into the backyard, and it crosses his mind that he's never actually come out here before. Some part of him never bothered to even check to see if the Domino Children's Home had a backyard, because there's always been a part of him that was convinced he wouldn't be here long. What's the point of exploring a place that won't even matter in a few weeks?

He's kept on thinking this way for almost seven months now.

Seeing the transformation that's taken place out here—in a yard that no doubt usually looks no different from the front one—almost stops Seto Yagami's heart.

Mokuba squeals.

There's a bright blue inflatable castle with the word ASTROJUMP stamped ostentatiously on the side; there's a huge rounded trampoline with a pentagonal set of safety nets. At least ten picnic tables, all set with brightly-colored cloth and paper plates stamped with the Magic & Wizards logo. Streamers are everywhere, wound around every possible surface like Christmas lights. Balloons, signs, three piñatas shaped like dragons, four lavishly-decorated cakes, a vat of ice cream—and almost every single resident of the Domino Children's Home, milling about, talking, laughing, playing. Seto quickly takes stock of attendance; it has never been his way to ignore small details. Particularly when he has no proper idea what else he's actually supposed to be doing.

Only two of his fellow orphans are missing, and have been replaced by Yugi and Téa. David Whittaker, and . . .

"Gonna let flies in there, keep gawpin' like that, Yagami."

Seto flinches so violently that his feet actually leave the ground.

It's Ellie, grinning like she knows a secret, still with her leather jacket. But everything else about her outfit is different. Instead of jeans and a They Might Be Giants t-shirt, she's wearing a white dress. Her dirty blonde hair is combed and tied back into a braid, as opposed to its usual messy sprawl.

She's wearing a silver necklace.

". . . Huh?"

Ellie laughs. Is she wearing makeup? "What's with that look?"

"I . . . uh . . . um . . . didn't think you liked dressing up."

"Yeah, well, you'll just have to make it up to me later."

"Who's this now?" Missus Mutou asks, with laughter in her voice. "Have you been holding out on us, Seto?"

Ellie's grin reminds Seto of a shark now. "I'm a bad influence on him. Ellie's what they call me." She holds out a hand, and Missus Mutou shakes it. Ellie turns her attention back to the festivities. "Well, now. Look at this. All this business on account o' just one of us." She gives Seto a playful push on the shoulder. "You've got some special friends, kiddo."

Seto feels his temperature rise, not just his face but every piece of him, from his toes to his fingers. He lowers his head. Part of him wants to cry. "I—I didn't—I never . . ."

"Oh, shut up. Nobody thinks you asked for this." Ellie winks at him. "Sometimes, other people just like to be nice." She leans down and gives Seto a peck on the cheek. "Especially if the recipient gets all embarrassed about it."

The sound that escapes Seto's throat is in no way human.

Mokuba is laughing, hopping up and down and apparently trying to dislocate Seto's shoulder, the way he's tossing his brother's arm around.

Ellie's grin widens again, making her look like the Cheshire Cat. She's enjoying this. "Look at you, pipsqueak. Obviously you're feeling better. Go on, then. Go show your brother how to have fun on his birthday."

"Birf-day!"

Seto ends up dragged halfway across the yard before he realizes he's even moved, and Mokuba—not really paying attention to where he's going; he's too distracted by all the colors—almost barrels right into Pegasus Crawford.

The president of Industrial Illusions has traded in his usual blood-red suit for a blue one that looks suspiciously like a French military officer's uniform from the nineteenth century. There are absolutely no traces of embarrassment on the man's face, despite the fact that he's apparently wearing his Halloween costume a week early.

"Aha. The guest of honor arrives." Pegasus bows with a flourish, then calls out in a loud thunderclap of a voice: "Everyone! If I might have your attention, please!" Dead silence reigns over the area. "I trust we all remember how this goes?" General murmurs of assent from children who usually have no reason whatsoever to listen to adults, and more than a handful of reasons not to.

Seto blinks several times.

What . . . ?

Pegasus holds up three fingers. "Three!" One goes down. "Two!" A second. "One!" He's holding up a fist.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SETO!"

.

We've crossed the 30,000 mark. I'm not sure what that means, specifically, but ever since I switched from number of pages to number of words in order to determine the length of a story, I've had a certain fascination with milestones.

This feels like one.

Next time, we'll (probably) wrap up Seto's birthday. I'm sure you're all wondering what sorts of presents he got. Or, maybe not. I'm not sure. Either way, though, I hope you found this one enjoyable.

It was difficult to pin down. I think the struggle was worth it, though.