Lucrative Contemplation

Michiro-Chan: I have difficulty getting to the point when it comes to my writing…I hope this looks a bit less scary from last time you may have read it. For people reading it for the first time, I hope you like it. Try to review this story if you like it--or even if you hate it--and be critical with your answer. Don't be too wishy-washy about it…I like hearing about what slip-ups I made in my writing, so I don't make the same mistakes again. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Yuu-Gi-Ou! nor do I own any of the characters used in this fan fiction.

XXX

"I walked into your dream, and now I've forgotten how to dream my own dream. You're the clever one, now, aren't you?"

XXX

His return home was the quickest thing among the tangled traffic of disturbed vehicles and insensible pedestrians. In fact, because of his little "encounter" with Jounouchi, he'd exchanged his slippers for his outdoor shoes and raced through the secondary school's double shouji doors immediately following his chat with the blond, with no further concern for his "English" period--or any other class for that matter. An excess adrenaline resting upon his trembling lips from what they'd just experienced.

Astoundingly enough, he'd never "swapped spit" with anyone, let alone one of the same gender-and what'd been most amazing was the ecstasy he'd received from it, and his disgraceful longing for another similar feeling. Then again, he remembered sharing a kiss with a certain someone of the same gender before…it had been his first kiss. His only kiss. True love's first kiss…not a strained one from his late adoptive father's avaricious little mouth. But, that man--he doubted he still returned the feelings, and they'd fallen apart long ago.

It made no sense. Emotion had always been his foe, yet…he desired another explosion of delight like when grazing tongues with that pathetic excuse for a human. Disgusting.

The CEO's rapid pace continued onward to his home again, winded by the full five miles spent exchanging thrusts against tattered asphalt from his simmering limbs. Welcomed past luxurious, elegant fencing without question after grunting into a rather gaudy intercom, the brunet shot several glares toward curious security guards, evidently implying the words, "Don't say anything." He left to his bedroom in haste, hurriedly locking himself up in a recently scrubbed private bathroom, still very scarce in breath.

"Dammit…damned dog! Could it be possible I feel lust for that idiot? He--he…" The teen gradually approached his reflection shown within the mirror above the sink. Thoughts began pouring into his mind. 'Mokuba mentioned it to Jounouchi. Does that mean he knows what I've been doing this whole time? I--I tried to hide it…I can't let him make sure of it…which reminds me--'

Seto allowed both hands to rest along either portion of marble beside the glimmering hilts of the sink faucet, and he scowled back to an unsatisfied view. 'Hn. My health's failing as it is, but I'm still not getting any results.'

He brandished a sallow hand to his mouth, and slipped a glaringly lean forefinger past the front of his jaw. 'I can't let Jounouchi get away with that. I can't bear this--' The tepid substance finally cast out from his trembling stomach the short while his fingertip had come into contact overwhelmingly past a bulbous uvula, and the dark substance was too soon flushed out from his gaping mouth. With this done, the teen erratically reached for the faucet knob and washed his paling countenance in icy water.

The boy collapsed into a crumpled heap along the wall again, still fatigued from his earlier run. 'Does Mokuba know about this? If I keep working, I'm sure he'll think I'm just too busy to come to dinner. Right? Dammit, this is getting out of control…' A brittle palm kissed his quivering brow. Teeming sweat formed along his hand. 'I can't concentrate anymore--knowing it's bound to get to Mokuba at one point. Shit--I can't make myself stop this. I worked so intensely for all of it. My metabolism's getting slow, though. If Mokuba gets me to eat even a little bit and I vomit later, my body responds to it. Fuck.'

Kaiba released a sigh, and began unbuttoning his roomy seifuku. 'I can't sleep. Every night, it's the same. Going to bed--those Goddamn pills…I can't sleep if I can't rush off to the bathroom at least twice to make sure I've gotten rid of all the crap inside me…it's getting out of hand. I've lost control of this disorder, and the medicine isn't going to help.'

He hissed at the thought of his ordeal. 'I don't want this. I'm fucking sick of this. But, it's the only thing that's ever filled these empty insides. Even more than Kaiba Corporation. It's the only thing I've everbeen happy with in this barren hellhole I call "life"--I need anorexia.'

He slid off his uniform jacket from his arms, hoping he'd slowly cool down from his fitfully overheated, poorly adjusted, bodily thermostat. Ever since he'd actually began thinning up, his body poorly adjusted to extreme warmth or extreme cold. In the sun, he'd sweat to no end, and sunstroke was at all times a strong possibility. In the wind, every part of him would be shaking--his entire body would practically collapse, seeing as it no longer had resistance to these conditions. But losing thirty-nine pounds in less than two months really does have a tendency to fuck up somebody's body in general.

In drowsy retirement, his spine slothfully lolled against distastefully cold linoleum. A tremble ran through his hand. His insecurity had almost grown a life of its own after time.

On the inside, it was almost like his younger years, being beaten by Gouzaburou. A figure of lost innocence, just like that--secluded in the soul room…with no escape…with no filling nourishment of love or indulgence. Sedated and trembling in his eternal sleep.

Slowly, Seto noticed he was beginning to grow like that inner figure. But the inner, untainted Seto didn't want to look the way he did. He wanted to love again, to smile, and to laugh. Leading the blissful life he once had during his early childhood--before Gouzaburou, before the orphanage, before his father passed away. Even contemplating life before his mother died, sometimes. How would life be without Mokuba? He'd still have his mother…then again; it was difficult to think about.

He lounged back onto the floor listlessly, and positioned clasped hands mildly onto his stomach. A pang of self-consciousness cast along his fingers, and he moved his arms onto the ground instead. 'When's the last time I've smiled? Ha. Stupid question…' Veiled, russet lashes closed, but wagged toward an unease he'd been contemplating. 'It's almost strange to think about it again. I remember a passion I used to have at that age--a will to survive; that recently, I've clearly lost. It hurts to think about now, but I almost feel nostalgic for that childish endurance. That driven desire to carry on breathing just for Mokuba; able to do so much for such a small, incapable boy of thirteen…'

XXX

"Dammit...hurts more than usual--"

The quivering adolescent allowed his gaze to cast along the cheerless picture before him. He let off a quick tremor along his spine, and his whitish lips curled into a struggled grin. 'Hn. A little boy trapped in the ill hands of fate--forgotten and broken…like a child growing out a toy. I'm just an orphan…doing everything unnoticed by everyone else's parents. I don't understand any of this anymore--'

A large breath escaped his nostrils, and the brunet shook in pain while slithering out from his blood-spattered shirt. The thick cloth wrung within his trembling hands, sopping and heavy with full absorption of blood; he gave his hips a quick, careful wriggle, and slipped down his tiny, tattered, denim jeans along his bruise-dappled thighs, heaving out a small gasp when the frayed seam had grazed one of his deeper gashes. "Shit…"

Kaiba Seto had, yet again, been given another full-scale assault from his adoptive father, and fully accustomed to the dreary process, he'd agreed on bathing first, and patching up afterwards. Mokuba was somewhere else, and he didn't want to pour concern onto the child owing to a paltry raid from a stingy Gouzaburou. The pre-adolescent was actually relieved he hadn't passed out this time from the thrashing, then again--fixing a hostile stare back to his gruesome reflection, he rethought the disturbing circumstances.

Suicide was beginning to look like platinum, but he knew he couldn't leave his brother with the pathetic excuse for a parent. He'd been thankful that he'd enough energy to hobble to the bathroom this time. He normally wasted away the remains of the day lifeless, or was confined to bed, unveiling faultfinding eyes to fluorescent lighting within hours, not even the least healed.

The demanding cycle of trotting off to school morning time in a plainly agitated or lethargic manner as a toll to unattended wounds--going to his classes, one by one, dreading the walk home again to school homework and long-lasting tutorials--compliments of Gouzaburou's monthly-disbursed, home professors--then welcoming the fiery greeting of his father's entrance home, usually being drawn out black-mail, frightening discipline, ungracious protest to Seto's "laziness," or fierce, hand-clouting and weapon-smacking--always shut up together in a private room, where he could have peace--to fritter away the rest of the night in pain beyond words, with another day before him…the routine was beginning to show sickening effects on his body.

A waterless tongue carried out its utmost to moisten his uncomfortably dry mouth as he mulled the situation over.

He noticed that because of the lingering lessons with his tutors, trying errands, and the endless lashings, he was not having the time to eat like he used to. It wasn't the problem of him not wanting to eat. He dreamt of feasts whenever he spent nights bedridden to hard beatings--the only time he actually had bits of food in his mouth was lunchtime during school hours. Because of the overwhelming labor he was forced to do on a daily basis, Gouzaburou didn't allow him to eat anything until all work was completed and usually after a good whipping when the boy would have already lost his appetite from the pain.

The cold child was becoming nerve-racked by this unbroken hunger and incessant emotional sickness, and to his equally ill luck, the brassy requiem of his miserable, very hungry stomach was beginning to disrupt classes. It was pitiful seeing that heartrending expression that could have very well passed for one of an infant dwelling in an internment camp…clinging so bleakly onto the malicious barricade of barbed wire, yearning refuge from their prison--

"Oh, Kaiba-kun, have you been eating well enough?"

"Mr. Kaiba, you always come to school with a bruised face…would you care to explain to us about anything or anyone that's doing this to you?"

"Are you growing ill, Seto-sama? You don't look as healthy as you used to--you look so pale…"

It was always the same as yesterday. His teachers would grimace, and not mention the matter freely, while those that mustered the courage to do so would be ignored or demurred by the boy.

"Yes, I'm fine. I just didn't have breakfast…"

"These bruises aren't a big deal. Just accidents or getting hurt in PE."

"It's just the accelerated extra school program I have at home…it's hectic, of course…but it's nothing to worry about."

But, he always overheard the teachers' panicked tones while gossiping amongst themselves--

"Have you seen how thin he's gotten over the past year--! It's not normal! I think his father isn't letting him eat."

"He's come almost everyday with some kind of injury...you don't suppose it could be...?"

"Are you sure it's his father we should blame? What if it's Kaiba-kun doing this to himself--?"

Semesterly physicals directly following his venture into middle school were utter nightmares for the youngster. He often found himself scribbling out forged excuses, frittering extended lengths of time of self-confinement to the school bathrooms, and even playing outright truants. If the nurse saw all the scars…the half-healed wounds…there would be one hell of a national stick the instant it'd be recorded into his physical profile and word would get round that the golden boy was sodomized daily by a mysterious somebody--the first suspect likely to be his masochistic self.

Likewise, Seto certainly didn't take the time to notice it with all his studying up, but as the schoolboys of his grade were experiencing the time-honored weight gain and growth-spurt of adolescence, pinch-to-grow-an-inch or not, his height wasn't budging and his weight was lingering at death's door with a set of primed knuckles pending the final hard-knock. And it still went down.

In sixth grade, he wasn't even half as miserable: more timid than reserved, admittedly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed even without the silly, grade-schooler smiles, slim rather than gaunt, rosy-cheeked, ruddy-lipped, a lad full of pride and life decked out in his well-groomed school uniform. Now, he resembled a drowsy-eyed, weary handbag of bones hovering around in an insomniac's hell. All life was drained out from him by that tyrant. Maybe it was the rape that did it.

He remembered throwing off his undershirt one of those luckless afternoons, being gawked at by his male classmates without end, as if he'd somehow uncovered a hidden, third leg. What he had uncovered was about a torso's worth of nightly abuse by unclean hands, the exposure of distended tendons, and a diseased sum of very nearly transparent, knotty bones--all of which wove in a disturbing macramé along a snowy, decrepit chest and ashy back. It wasn't abnormal to be scrawny, but this was just awful.It wasn't at a point where you could count ribs quite yet...but it was certainly getting there.

It was a rather difficult-to-get-on-with lifestyle, but Seto knew he could cope with it. He was strong. He knew that emotion wouldn't help him out of the mess, so he cast aside all compassion, suppressed all nostalgia, and hid his deep pain. Instead, materialistic and academic lust, and the few minutes with his brother every week seemed to be a new interim tonic to this disease of which there existed no cure. It was small, but it was enough to keep him waking up everyday. Just a toothy grin from Mokuba would give him strength enough for another week of the atrocities…the loneliness…and misery. Everything he did was for Mokuba.

The azure-eyed martyr of infidelity stirred the murky contents of the bathtub with an unsteady hand, and allowed the meshed reek of foul blood and overwhelming fragrances to tingle his senses.

'Hopefully, this washes all the cuts out. Ha. Pouring hot water all over open cuts-what is my life coming to? Still--' His brows puckered slightly. 'I hate blood. I hate the smell…the look of it…the taste.'

He remembered being at the age of late two, bashing his fragile, tiny knee forcefully against a shabby column of a cinder play structure, and shrieking at the rare glimpse of it.

"AHH! Otousan! Something's happened to my leg!" A violent clatter tore through the quiet of contentedly playing children, following with thick, throaty sobs. "Otousan!"

The apprehensive father sprinted to his frenzied son's rescue, greeted with a tight, fickle embrace.

"Seto…tell me, what is it?" His deep, calm tone failed in relaxing the toddler into restored composure. The infant seldom cried--he knew it from early experience with the child-so his nervousness was great.

"Otousan, I'm dying…" his son whispered huskily, tightening his arm's clasp around his father's neck. Succulent, tepid tears trickled along the boy's full, dimpled cheeks, and his posture grew stiff, only injured limb throbbing violently.

His father's warm gaze shifted to the ripe wound, lips tilting into a crooked smile. "Seto, it's okay now. You won't die…it'll be all right…" A smothered chuckle was heard from the male, as he gently pulled his beloved child closer to his frame. He fondled the toddler's auburn locks, and bolstered the boy. "It's only blood…you're going to be fine…we'll wash it all off when we get home, okay?"

"What is it he's crying about? Are you all right, Seto?" The peal of an alarmed woman's voice immediately led the teary-eyed infant to jerk around heartily toward his mother. He quivered fearfully.

"Okaasan, will the blood wash off? Are you sure it won't stay there forever?" he twittered, plump, childish fists lifted up to his chin somewhat musingly.

She beamed angelically, and cupped his wet cheek. "You can always wash the blood off, Seto…" A single, limber finger tipped his disheartened complexion up toward the sunlight. "You just can't be afraid of it, Seto--you can't be afraid…"

He never did find out whether that was a metaphor or mere coincidence.

Of course, the near-fourteen-year-old Kaiba would never allow the thought of himself wailing like a toddler to even reach his mind--so, from time to time, whenever he caught a glimpse of the fire-engine red liquid surging out in pints from a battered limb--the few contents of his stomach would stir up like some type of demented self-implanted blender, and at times, the swill would be flushed out from his pale lips as fresh vomit…if he ever dared maintaining his gaze toward the crimson elixir of mortal life.

As a result, the nauseating brew of blood, sweat, tears, semen, sperm, partly digested food, et cetera would spread all over the teen's well-kempt seifuku, well known for making a very disgruntled Gouzaburou. So every now and then he'd find himself scowling at the penalty of scrubbing down the uniform by hand himself. Squeamish--it was a funny word…but it certainly described the way he was acting.

The russet-haired pre-adolescent hissed at the pang of searing water meeting new gashes, but continued plunging his body down into the roomy tub, cunning movement giving his torso less agonizing entrance into the roasting liquid.

Heaving up a rickety ankle to his Prussian gape, he inspected the member with little care, and released his calve with a deep groan. Flexing raspingly, Seto recoiled at disclosing the wild unearthing of his once untouched, porcelain sphincter now tattered down to the very seam. 'If Mokuba sees me lowered to this, he'll be in hysterics even I can't help. What else is there to do…but wait--?' He lowered both sets of dark lashes along his pupils. 'Until Gouzaburou goes to hell where he's always belonged. Feh. Life started out perfectly when he first dragged me to this mansion. Pampering me, stuffing me with only the best food, spoiling me…no school or draining extra classes. Any regular child's fantasy,--but when you adopted me, I wasn't a child anymore.'

His eyes grew wistful. 'I turned the tables around…and would've chosen death over exchanging bodies with your apology for a son. It pisses the hell out of me just thinking about it. Coddling me for your fucking son's revival.

'You're not as stupid as you look though, I suppose. You knew from the start I was better for the job, so you pretended to ignore everything and blamed me for your own son's failure, while pushing me through my limits. And now--you beat me; you rape me; you starve me; and you've worked me for hours with this meaningless cram school. All of it fucking sucks. I'd probably be better-off--psychologically and physically--living in that orphanage with nothing again. You've turned me into a fucking bigot. But I can't…I'm never going to let you drag me off to that decrepit hellhole.'

Seto tried to suppress upcoming tears with the heel of his hand. '…I have to conquer you, Gouzaburou. I can't die now. I absolutely loathe hypocrites like you, and have enough resilience in me against this living hell that'll last me onto your death. You know I'm stronger than you'll ever be, and this petty orphan will do more than your fucking son ever could've dreamed of doing.' He managed to smirk through waterlogged eyes. 'You convinced me for so long that I was weak and stupid. Not able to keep up with this torment. I've forgotten happiness, forgotten how to love, and I've learned hate, pitilessness, and I've been manipulated to the point that I've almost been robbed of my pride. Your plot was genius--foolproof--faultless. But, you overlooked one mistake in your plan, Gouzaburou--' Seto narrowed his eyes. 'You chose me for the pawn and for that, I won't lose. It'll cost you your life, bastard.'

His beaten, crushed hands curled into fists after these beastly words had been washed out from his pulsing insides. And, sadly, every word of it was true.

About three years ago, first ushered into the Gouzaburou home, Seto had attended school as an antagonistic, more distant child, but by and large, he had been the hackneyed dour, blunt little boy his colleagues expected as much, well-known for his seat at the Kaiba mansion. His instructors would merely laugh at his unusual behavior, and always approved of his scholarly, diligent practices in the classroom. But, two years later, his teachers noticed his test scores plunge beyond even prodigal, and his health only collapse.

Facial appearance once a nourished paleness, grew an anemic gray, while his hair became dowdy and lifeless, gentle eyes reflecting only less brightness, growing much more steely and icy, while his growth was only neglected, effect of the little nutrition he received. The boy's words became only shrewder, while his behavior became illegible, more wayward, and even standoffish at times. The usually washed-out, white face piebald with contusions that greeted each one of his teachers every morning so scathingly left panic in their minds--sound reasoning as to why he always had such a tattered, exhausted appearance attending classes. Obviously, he was hiding something. But, as firmly as they questioned him, Seto refused to give them an honest response. They'd given up after months of investigation, so their anxiety with the preteen's home-life was cast aside.

Time had reared its ugly head, and Seto's near future was only having a grimmer result. He tried building castles in the sky; the precious flicker of childishness at rest in his mind--still remembering the joy of still gazing into the divine face of ignorance; unaware of the world around him--still wriggling within the shelter of his non-existent womb…where he would ease beneath clean sheets. Untouched, once again.

It harked back to the memory of an article he'd glimpsed in on Egyptology mentioning the god of chaos, Set, tearing himself from the womb before birth out of impatience. Born too early, thus making him intolerant, impulsive, somewhat childish, and one of the more loathsome Egyptian gods. Just like that. Seto hadn't known entering the brink of adulthood too soon would bid him a rude awakening to the cruel, child-unfriendly, real world--not that he had much choice, anyway.

He was growing more listless with his younger brother, too. It seemed like their love was being torn at the seam with the little time Seto had to giggle again babyishly with the raven-haired boy. Seto was slowly forgetting how to laugh or how to smile. It all seemed like a recollection shut away in the inner-sanctity of his mind, wherein he'd lost the key to the shabby, mahogany door to happiness, and no longer had intentions to penetrate the realm--in slight fear of what its inner recesses held after all his vagrant years.

He finally cleared off all the blood from his disgruntled body and let off a shaky breath treading out from the water--knees clanking in quick tuning from warmth. The child embraced his cold body with trembling arms, in hysterical delving for the nearest towel within his reach. Chocolate tresses thoroughly soaked down with water, his colorless expression was framed by the cluttered strands of curly hair, even his brows dewy with his just done bath. It looked almost--too cute to relate in anyway with the uncaring thirteen-year-old.

"Ah…damn thing…" The murmur was not thinly bitter, as he was shaking to a point he couldn't sound threatening anymore. The adolescent successfully caught hold of the textile, and toweled off his scarred limbs with the cloth rather frowningly. "…Mokuba." He mused the suggestion. 'Gouzaburou's finished with me for today. I'm guessing the idiot's thinking I'm passed out, so I'll visit him today…sneaking out of this room and escaping to Mokuba's room without getting caught, of course, but--' He tilted down his head and ruffled the towel along his dark mane. 'I wish I could see him more--then, I guess I can't say anything. I gotta go now, so…'

Seto slipped into the set of pressed, washed clothing he'd set aside earlier, and gawked into the looking glass one last time. Wishing for inhibition of his drowsy exterior, although the heavenly-white, gold-trimmed attire seemed to bulk up the brittle frame he knew Mokuba would panic toward, the little show of his hands and face were terrible. He remembered his younger brother easily falling into a frenzy of frantic pity tracing even a single bruise on the minor's wrist. Seto sighed. He knew he wasn't going to pass up the privilege of visiting his brother, so he'd cope with the troubled, sharp apologies. It was always worth it.

"Mattero, Mokuba."

XXX

It had been hours that Seto mulled over this in the isolation of his private bathroom; expression changing from wide-eyed, trembling and drained of all healthful color; from knitted, gingery brows sculpting cruelly along nippy twin crystals, and filmy lips turned down into a deep glare; to a baffled, gaping, horrified posture. The child he once was had been unkind, but had a drive to life. Now, it seemed like that ember of rage in the drive for survival had smoldered to a softer glow than candlelight.

"Have I lost it--?" A scowl swept his handsome, yet skeletal face. 'No, I'm not suicidal--' The determination fixed on his expression quickly weakened. 'Heh. Why do I feel forced to keep lying to myself again and again? Why do I have to lie to myself in hopes that I'll get rid of the nightmare that's already died? Gouzaburou died a while ago, but it hasn't stopped haunting me--it's too late to sulk or regret everything that's in the past. For now…I know I can't abandon Mokuba. I won't--'

XXX

Michiro-Chan: I make Seto go through SO much torture in this fan fiction…it makes me feel so sorry for him, but then I come to the realization that…wait, wasn't I the one who wrote this? 0 Anyway, try to review if you can, and thank you in advance for people who've already done it.