It's kind of weird, writing an arc of a story in August when the in-universe timeline is November – December. It's not exact, but it's close enough to be weird. I suppose if I were clever, I'd try to line things up with the actual time of year.

I am not clever.

Also, it's been a while since I've said this: but to everyone new to this story, welcome! I hope you're enjoying the ride so far. We're on the home stretch.

I've been building toward this for … years.


1.


"Hey, Niisama?"

Seto had learned to prepare himself for anything these days, whenever he heard those two words. Mokuba was getting older, and his questions weren't necessarily going to be easy to answer; his favors weren't necessarily going to be easy to carry out.

"What's up, kid?"

That naturally didn't stop Seto from answering when his brother called; it just meant that he had to be more careful now. He had to take more time to prepare now, because if he said things the wrong way, his brother would latch onto the wrong lesson, out of raw defiance if nothing else. Mokuba would be a teenager soon; not just because he was closing in on adding a "-teen" to his age, but because he was gaining a certain confidence, a sharpness, that reminded Seto of himself at that age.

Which was frightening, to say the absolute least.

Tonight, however, the young Kaiba looked rather vulnerable. Like maybe he wasn't growing up quite as fast as Seto had thought. He was fidgeting and trying very hard not to. Eventually he stuffed his hands into his pockets and stood there for a while, kicking at the carpet, until he finally managed to compose himself.

"Um . . . what should I do for Christmas this year?"

Seto blinked. "Excuse me?" Of all the things Mokuba might have asked, Seto hadn't even started to consider this one. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Well, I mean . . . every year it's just been you and me. I know what kind of stuff to get you. But . . . what about Connor? And Rebecca? And Huan, and Lee, and Aisha? I don't wanna be that guy, flaunting all his money and stuff. Just goin' around giving people gold watches so they know I'm superior. Oh, what, this? Oh, it's just a little something I had lying around. It costs as much as your house, sure, but it's not important to me. But I also don't wanna be cheap about it. How . . . how do I figure out what to get everybody?"

Seto leaned back in his chair. ". . . Hnh," he said.

"See?" Frustration flitted across Mokuba's face. "It's stupid! I can't just take them on a shopping spree because what if it upsets them? But I can't just buy them each a t-shirt or something because we all know I can do better!"

"Gift-giving isn't a contest, Mokuba," Seto said. "The first thing you need to do is not think about things in those terms." He leaned up again, resting his elbows on his desk. "First and foremost, think about what your friends would appreciate. What do you think they would like? Cost is irrelevant right now." He paused. "For us, cost is irrelevant anyway. But that's not the point. Remember what I've always told you: the first step to tackling a big problem is to break it into a sequence of small problems."

Mokuba frowned. "I'm pretty sure you used to use a dismemberment metaphor for that one, Niisama."

"Did I?" Seto smirked. "It's still good advice and you know it."

Mokuba sighed. "I guess." He grumbled to himself as he flopped down on the couch on the other side of Seto's study, the one near the bookshelf that he'd effectively claimed as his own. "I dunno why I can't just buy everybody a new computer or . . . a house or something." He scowled. "Can't we just buy a castle and invite everybody to live with us?"

Seto chuckled. "I'm sure we could, if it came to that." There was a gleam in the elder Kaiba's eye that said he was more interested in that specific idea than he wanted to admit. "But that would only exacerbate the problem you're having, now, wouldn't it?"

Mokuba stuck out his tongue. "Stop using nerd words," he said.

"All right," Seto said, clicking at his keyboard. "Fine. I'll help you. Let's make a list, shall we? We'll start with Connor."


2.


Enid Brinkley was never quite so animated than when company was imminent. As the holidays came closer, she became more and more particular about the state of the house. "We're going to have about twice as many people as this house was built for," she said one morning, "and that means we have a lot of work ahead of us."

For Connor, that meant it was time to give his bedroom the dreaded Deep Clean™, and for Leo it meant that all the various bits and pieces of maintenance he'd been putting off had to be done. For Enid, it meant networking and coordinating. She was hardly seen off her phone, working out plane tickets and just how many air mattresses and spare blankets they were all going to need.

There was one point at which the general severity of the whole affair toned down, or at least stopped in its tracks.

It was when Connor asked: ". . . Are Aunt Nadine and Uncle Gareth coming this year?"

Enid flinched, rather violently, but she eventually drew herself up and said: "I don't think so, honey. They don't seem to be speaking to us." She then sent a sardonic look her husband's way. "Apparently the very least we could do to make up for this is cut off contact with those people."

"Oh, is that right?" said Leonard.

"Evidently there was some kind of internet news story that had a very colorful way of describing what happened with Matthew, and they're now convinced that the Kaibas are running a smear campaign against their boy."

"I guess they don't want to know what I think about what happened that day," Connor guessed.

"Oh, no. Sorry. You've been compromised." At this, Enid rolled her eyes. "Apparently you've been coached on what to think. And if you don't tow the line, you'll be . . . punished, or something. I don't know. Conspiracy nonsense."

Leo grunted. "Far be it from me to speak ill of family. But if they're going to be mad at anyone about this whole affair, shouldn't it be us? We were responsible for him."

Enid shrugged. "Our apology isn't enough. They've declared war on the Kaibas. Whatever that means. And as long as we've chosen sides, they don't want anything to do with us."

Connor had always liked Uncle Gareth. He was nice, and always paid attention to whatever Connor had to say. Aunt Nadine was . . . kind of strange, but she'd never seemed all that bad. She was just real particular about how things should be, and had a rather nasty habit of getting snippy and sarcastic with people who didn't agree with her. It didn't feel right for them to be missing from the big family get-together. And yet, Connor had no real urge to try convincing them to change their minds.

So, Matt's parents wouldn't be around this year. Neither would Matt.

"I guess that's not too surprising," Connor mumbled. "Still kinda sad, though."

"It is," Enid agreed. "But there isn't anything to be done about it now. We've got too much else to worry about. I'm not about to bend over backwards explaining to them that sending someone to the hospital isn't 'a little mistake.' This isn't some liberal conspiracy." She shook her head again, as if clearing her head of such nonsense thoughts. "Anyway. It isn't important and I shouldn't complain. I do believe you have an exam to study for, don't you?"

"Ugh. Don't remind me."

Connor found himself wondering, as he trudged back to his bedroom, whether Mokuba had any plans for the holidays.


3.


Most everyone who watched Gloria Haley work came to the same conclusion: she was the definition of a mad genius. Though she had grown up with traditional methods, she seemed to delight in subverting them for no better reason than to make sure that she never stayed too comfortable. Her canvas—or sketchbook, or poster-board—never stayed in one position for long.

Neither did she.

It wasn't uncommon to see her wander around her entire studio as she put something together; the main reason her store was so large was almost exclusively because she'd known from the start that she would need pacing room. She spent a more than a fair amount of time eyeing her work from different angles, different distances, sometimes upright and sometimes upside down.

She was walking around and around a sketch that she'd placed on the floor, studying it and arguing with herself, when he called.

"Oi," she said, "boss man. Wondered when I might hear from you."

"There are two reasons for this call, Miss Haley. First is to inquire how things are progressing."

Haley chuckled. "Not too shabby. I sent some thumbnails to the email you left me." She paused. "I'll have some more to ya tonight, actually. Now I got your ear, though, I got a couple questions for you."

"Do tell."

"You said the portrait I did for your brother was what got you to come see me. So is that the kind of thing you're looking for? Classic photorealism, all that such-and-whatnot?"

"For the moment, I'm making no specific requests of you. I trust your judgment."

"I bet you say that to all the girls." Seto chuckled but said nothing else. "All right, then. I s'pose that would mean I already know the answer to my other question, which was whether you wanted this done in acrylic, same as that portrait, or if that was up to me, too. But I'm guessing it's up to me, ain't it, now?"

"Precisely."

"All righty, then. So if that's the one reason for you callin' me, then what's the second?"

"I realize that this is very sudden, and I'm well aware that it will cost me, but I have another job for you."


4.


Mere moments after terminating his call with Gloria Haley, Seto's phone rang. He answered without looking at the screen, choosing instead to keep his attention focused on his surroundings. For some time now, he had taken to walks about the Kaiba Estate as he conducted any sort of business that could be completed without the use of his computer. It tended to help him keep a level head, and he found that he actually had an easier time sleeping.

Was it the exertion of being on his feet for longer than usual? Was it the fresh air? Was it the sense of freedom? Seto had no idea. He was growing better and better at self-reflection as time went on, but he was hardly an expert on his own psychology; if he were, he doubted he would need to speak to Akiko so often.

Then again, he didn't need to speak to her at all. Talking to him wasn't what he paid her for, after all. But it seemed to please Mokuba that they were working together; Seto figured that that was quite enough of a reason to do it.

He made a mental note to ask her about his walks the next time they met.

"Kaiba," he said.

"Hello, Mister Kaiba," came Enid Brinkley's voice. "I hope your day is going well?"

"Well enough," said Seto. "What can I do for you, Missus Brinkley?"

"I realize that this is something of a long shot, but I wondered if you and your brother had any specific plans for Christmas this year."

They didn't. The truth of the matter was, neither Mokuba nor Seto were particularly enamored with Christmas anymore. Seto was still somewhat surprised that Mokuba was worried about getting gifts for his friends; he was often more critical of the holiday's commercialism—and more vocal about it, besides—than Seto himself was.

And Seto had never been particularly quiet on the subject.

Seto and Mokuba were more likely to take a road trip on Christmas morning, and spend the day seeking out interesting vistas to take pictures and nap in the sunshine. Well, Mokuba napped. Seto would stare at the sky for two hours.

"Specific plans?" Seto repeated. "No."

"The reason I ask is that . . . well, Matthew's parents aren't going to be here with the rest of the family for . . . probably obvious reasons. To say nothing of Matthew. To be honest, I'm almost positive I'm being paranoid here. But I worry that their absence is going to pretty much ruin Connor's day. He's still having trouble not blaming himself for everything. I thought that . . . well, if a friendly face was here, it would help keep his spirits up."

Seto frowned thoughtfully. Stopped his leisurely stroll about the back gardens—well, leisurely for him, anyway; to anyone else it would have been a power walk—and stared off into the distance for a while.

"Which is to say," Enid continued, "would you and your brother be interested in spending Christmas with us?"

Seto reached back as far back as he could into the vaults of his memory. Made a tally of how many times he and Mokuba had spent that old midwinter festival around other people. How long had it been since they'd had a tree? A traditional sit-down dinner? How long since they watched an old, hyper-cliché of a movie with a sappy-happy ending and a soundtrack full of bells?

. . . Too long, perhaps.

"I'll talk to Mokuba," Seto finally said, because it was honestly the only thing he could think to say. "And for the record, I have my doubts that you're being paranoid. I'll be in touch."

"Okay." Enid sounded anxious. "Thank you so much. Goodbye, Mister Kaiba."

"It's no problem. Goodbye, Missus Brinkley."


5.


By mid-December, the Kaiba Estate was practically deserted. Even the cleaning staff was nowhere to be seen; Seto tended to upkeep himself. It was the only time of year that he took completely off from work, and the only reason he did so was on principle. While religious holidays meant next to nothing to either of the Kaibas, that did not mean they ignored them.

Seto took his vacation near Christmas because it made the most sense, statistically. Productivity was ground to a crawl anyway. There was little point in trying to keep the machine running. Better to shut down and reboot later in the season.

This was one reason the brothers tended to leave town during the holidays. The house was, paradoxically, claustrophobic when they were the only ones in it. The halls echoed with too many memories, and there weren't enough footfalls to drown out the ghosts.

Mokuba would play music as loud as he could, and if it ever got too loud he wouldn't turn it down; he would just move to a different room. Seto would let him. They would carry on conversations by shouting at each other, Mokuba from the second-floor hallway and Seto from the ground-floor kitchen, just so the sound of their own voices would bounce off the walls.

Mokuba spent almost every night in his brother's bedroom for the last three weeks of the year.

"What do you think about a change of pace this year?" Seto asked one evening.

"Huh?" Mokuba looked up from his book—a paperback collection of Sherlock Holmes stories—and stared at his brother for a moment. "Whatcha mean, big guy?"

"We have been invited to spend the holiday with the Brinkleys," Seto said, gesturing randomly. "From the sound of it, there will be more than enough people around for us to fade right in."

"Really?" Mokuba tilted his head to the side, looking like a curious bird. "Connor didn't say nothin'."

"His mother called me this afternoon." Seto scratched behind Sausage's ears as the little kitten hopped up on his lap. He decided not to mention the reason for the invitation; it didn't seem particularly relevant, and he doubted it would add much to the conversation.

"What about the kids at the DCH?" Mokuba asked.

"We can meet with them in the morning," Seto said, "and make our way to the Brinkleys' afterward." Usually, after their road trip, they would stop at the old orphanage and deliver toys and clothes to the children. Sometimes, Seto would even dress for the part.

Mokuba often said that convincing his brother to dress up as Santa Claus was one of his finest achievements; Seto didn't dispute him.

Mokuba mulled this over. "Might be nice," he said. "I've never met Connor's family. I mean, besides his mom and dad. And . . . uh . . ."

"Right," Seto said.

"Should we bring something?" Mokuba asked. "Like a cake or . . . champagne or whatever?"

"Or whatever," Seto said. "I'll think of something."

". . . Okay. Okay, yeah. I like it." The more Mokuba thought about it, the more excited he got. A smile stretched across his face. Then he seemed to remember something, and frowned. "Hey, Niisama, what was up with you asking everybody at the club what their favorite monster was?"

Seto smirked. "It's a thought exercise," he said. The most important part of lying effectively was to mask it with the truth. "It is, perhaps, true that the most effective way to build a deck is to consider which strategies come most intuitively. But since most beginning players aren't necessarily going to know the answer to that, it's best to start with a favorite monster. Once you have your key card, you can build around it."

"Rebecca said something like that." Mokuba nodded, and seemed to accept this as an answer; Seto was relieved. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt, but he banished it quickly. "She called it the ace."

Seto nodded. "Precisely. One, perhaps two monsters. At most. One's first deck should always be relatively simple. Too much complexity all at once will be unwieldy and overwhelming."

"Uh-huh. That's why your first deck was so simple. With its six different victory paths—yes, you called them that, I remember—and all those spreadsheets you made."

"Listen." Seto straightened and rolled his shoulders. "I am not to be taken seriously as a model duelist. I am an awful example and you should know that by now." Mokuba's smile twisted into an impish little grin. "And just because I won three tournaments with that deck does not mean it was a good deck. It means the universe took pity on me."

"You said it was because you were born to break through the competition and blaze the path to greatness."

"I also said something to the effect of: 'emotions are a virus, a terminal one.' I was an idiot. Don't change the subject." Seto smirked, but it felt like a grimace. "The only member of this club I will allow to build a deck without restriction is Rebecca. She has numerous tournament victories to her name already, and she's earned the privilege to do what she pleases. The rest of you are still being trained."

"Maybe I haven't won any tournaments," Mokuba said, "but I have beaten you. And you won plenty of them. So that means I've also won them."

"Nice try, kid," Seto shot back, "but that isn't going to work. It's a false dichotomy and you know it. Besides, none of the matches we've had are official. They don't count."

"Your first duel with Yugi wasn't official, either."

Seto blinked. ". . . No. No, it wasn't. But Pegasus Crawford is a jackass and our old directors were stupid. Irrelevant."

Mokuba laughed. "All right. Fair enough. But how am I supposed to build a deck around the Sword Stalker? He doesn't have much going for him."

Seto quirked an eyebrow. ". . . Shall I show you?"