Notes: It was Kaiba's birthday yesterday! For some reason I thought it was the 29th because I'm a terrible Kaiba fangirl despite my love of Kaiba being about eleven years strong now. So I'm late by a day, but hey, it okay.

The first is a short piece I wrote tonight; the second was from a very early iteration of this fic. It's written in present tense for some reason, but I figured I'd throw it in, since it was a Kaiba birthday story :)

Reviews would absolutely make my week, you guys. I love writing as a hobby, but I know that there's a billion and one ways I could improve. Please let me know your thoughts, even if they aren't super eloquent or well thought out 3

Enjoy + Happy (belated) birthday Kaiba!

First.

"Well, what do you usually do for Seto for his birthday?" Kisara asked. She and Mokuba were sitting in the Kaibas' well-lit den, each holding an ice-cold can of soda.

Mokuba looked uncomfortable. "Seto doesn't like to make a big deal out of it. I tell the cook to make sure to make filet mignon and truffle risotto. That's his favorite meal."

Kisara gaped. "No cake? No ice cream? No meeting to go over the numbers that turns out to be a surprise party with ice cream cake?"

Mokuba shrugged. "Ionno, sorry."

Kisara almost hadn't found out that it was Seto's birthday. Roland, driving a fairly inconspicuous gunmetal-colored sedan, was parked in the garage under her apartment at nine-fifteen; Seto had recently begun picking up Kisara so they could go to class together, which she greatly appreciated, because it meant that she didn't have to find parking. Their new routine had been going on for about a week now, just long enough for her to be beginning to get used to it. She tossed her backpack into the car, sidling into the backseat after her luggage.

"'Morning, Seto. Roland," she said. Prior to a week ago, Kisara had never been taken anywhere by a butler, she was only barely familiar with the meaning of the word. Yet she was already growing accustomed to Roland's self-effacing presence; she wasn't sure if she had ever heard him speak before being asked a question.

Not today, however. Roland's deep, gravelly voice sounded from the drivers' seat. "Do you know what day it is, miss?" he called back to her.

Kisara shook her head. "Uhhhhh. We have a review session for our midterm next week after lecture today," she offered hopelessly.

She could hear Roland's playful smile in the inflections in his voice. "It's Mr. Kaiba's twenty-fourth birthday today, miss!" She craned her neck to catch a glimpse of Seto's reaction in the rear-view mirror. His dark blue eyes betrayed nothing, and there was absolutely nothing about him that would suggest to her that anything was different.

Kisara's eyes widened. "Oh, happy birthday, Seto," she said, feeling a little flustered. "Ahhh, I can't believe you didn't tell me. I don't have anything for you."

"That's how I prefer it," Seto replied smoothly.

"Maybe we could all go out for dessert?" Kisara suggested to Mokuba. "There's that place that serves the nice fondue. Maybe we could get a reservation since it's a Tuesday night."

Mokuba nodded. "He might like that," he said finally.

Kisara sprung to her feet, glad to be given a direction. She had spent her morning in class feeling vaguely guilty that she hadn't known it was Seto's birthday-even though he had insisted that he didn't want a fuss to be made over the occasion, she felt nonetheless that it was part of her duty to do something to celebrate.

"I'll call. Do you have a phone charger, or something? I forgot to charge last night."

"Probably in Seto's office, he has like a million cords. Down the hall," Mokuba added.

Kisara flounced towards Seto's home office. Currently, Seto was at his official office on the thirty-eighth floor of KaibaCorp tower, or maybe he was in the research and development basement, or maybe he was having lunch with an important client—at the very least, he wasn't home. She swung open the heavy double-doors, marveling in the natural light streaming from every angle into her boyfriend's home workspace. Her own cluttered desk, littered with empty diet soda bottles, old study guides, and eraser dust, was a far cry.

A port with what appeared to be dozens of USB outlets was connected next to Seto's desktop computer. As she searched for a cable suited for her phone, her eye drifted to a white sheet of paper, folded neatly into thirds, with Seto written on it in cobalt ink.

Curiosity got the best of her, and she delicately reached for the piece of paper. It felt like an ordinary sheet of printer paper, with something inside. Very carefully, her heart pumping with the guilty sense that she was intruding on something personal, Kisara opened the folded sheet. A piece of postcard-sized canvas paper was neatly tucked inside. There was a drawing on the enclosed paper—two boys, one with brown hair and a blue sweater vest, one with shaggy black hair and a green track jacket, were paused in the middle of a chess game, staring brightly out of the scene, surrounded by a fascinated audience.

Cautiously, Kisara examined the picture closer, her heart skipping a beat when she realized that the boys in the drawing were, unmistakably, a young Seto and Mokuba. The person who drew them had taken painstaking efforts to capture every detail—the young Seto's bright eyes perfectly captured Seto's essence in dozens of watercolor strokes of azure, slate, and cerulean. Kisara felt like she had unwittingly stumbled onto something sacred.

Gently laying the drawing on the desk, careful not to smudge the artist's careful work, Kisara turned her attention towards the sheet of paper in her hands. Neat, shimmery cobalt letters were scrawled on the inside of the paper. She brought the paper closer to her eyes, squinting to read the tiny, compact print:

Seto,

I know that you don't want to have a big deal made about your birthday. There's just a couple of things I want to say.

Remember this picture? It was taken in the orphanage, on your ninth birthday. They gave everyone cookies and made everyone hang out in the day room to celebrate, but you just wanted to play chess with me.

We always spent your birthdays just you and me. I fed you your steak the year after Death-T. You probably don't remember that. When we were planning for the KC Grand Prix, and we had all those things to do all day long, we ordered a pizza and we ate it in your office at KC Tower.

This year we have Kisara, too. I can't believe we're sharing your birthday with someone else! It's weird to think that things are changing. But I'm glad that things are changing in a good way, and you seem like you're doing better, and happier.

I love you, big brother. Happy birthday.

Love,

Mokie

Second.

The girl flops across the bed, stretching out her arms in front of her. She smiles mischievously, rolling over onto her back. "Oh, my god, you're going to take forever. Hurry up."

A tall, brown-haired boy enters the room moments later, holding an ornate glass bottle and two stacked cups full of ice. He is still wearing his work pants, but his tie is loosened, and the top buttons of his dress shirt are undone. He sits down on the bed next to her; she scurries up and puts her head in his lap.

"Kisara."

"Yeah."

He sighs, brushing her pale hair out of his lap. "Can you not get your hair into the glasses? Please?"

"Oh, whatever, sorry. So are we doing this, or what?" She eagerly reaches for a bottle that the boy has set down next to him on the bed, then holds it in her hand, shaking it gently back and forth.

"Dude, this is awesome. This is like, a bajillion-dollar bottle. Come on, come on, come on." She pops open the bottle and pours an inch-or-two of amber liquid into her glass. She balances the cold cup between her legs as she pours whiskey into the second cup, and hands it back to her boyfriend.

"Seto Kaiba's first drink. I feel like I'm witnessing the, like, beginning of an era."

He takes the glass from her, stares at its' contents indifferently, swishes it in a circle so the ice clinks against the sides of the glass. "Why, exactly?"

She giggles again, resting her head against his shoulder. "Because, like, I always imagined you as one of those dark, brooding types. Sitting in your giant empty office in the rain, with the thunder behind you, drinking a glass of like, really expensive whiskey."

He meets her gaze, and his lips turn upwards, just slightly, into a smile. "Well, you thought wrong then."

"Yeah, I did. Okay," she lifts her glass into the air, "well, cheers!"

The glasses clink, and the girl puts hers to her lips, knocking it back in a single swig. It burns—she can feel it searing its' path down her throat and spreading flames across the inside of her stomach. She shakes her head slightly, and looks over at the boy next to her, who is staring at her with a look of disbelief.

"I don't think you were supposed to do that," he says, raising an eyebrow at her. "Are you going to be all right?"

She rolls her eyes and wraps her arm around him. "So like, you are going to take foreeeeeeever to finish." Her eyes follow him intently as he cautiously lifts the glass to his lips, tilts it, and takes a small sip of the liquid inside. He makes a face, winces, and slams the glass down on the bed.

"You know, I don't...I don't enjoy this."

She smiles, pours herself a little from his cup, swishes it around in her mouth. "You know, that's the thing. I feel like everyone is like, lying when they say they actually enjoy the taste of whiskey. Or like, any alcohol. You know?"

He looks at her disdainfully. "Kisara, it's a thirty year old scotch. Roland gave it to me for my birthday. You're not supposed to be-"

She cuts him off, rolling her eyes. "Oh my god, what, actually enjoying it? What are you going to do with yours?"

He looks uncomfortable for a moment, then sets the glass on his night-stand. "You know...I don't know. Just forget it."

"So like, all you guys own is a bunch of like, apple juice and Mountain Dew," she reports. She is holding a bottle of each in her hands. "I mean, in all reality, what does it even matter, so like-" she trails off and twists open the Mountain Dew cap. It chokes violently, spitting white foam onto the bed.

"Kisara. Careful," he says harshly, swatting her hand away from the duvet. She rolls her eyes and clumsily empties the soda into the glass.

"Okay, yeah, this is gonna be better, right. Tell me what you think." She shoves the glass into his hands, and he takes another cautious sip.

"It's fine. Look—whatever. Are you going to be all right?" She's standing over him, arms folded, frowning.

"I'm like—I'm ruining your birthday, or something, aren't I?" Without waiting for a response, she launches again, in a high-pitched, rapid-fire, slightly slurred voice. "I'm like the worst person ever, right? Like are you having any fun today? Like I waited outside your dumb stupid office for three hours with a bunch of muffins and you told me you weren't hungry when you finally got out of your dumb stupid meeting, and Mokie made us go to that place with the mac and cheese that he likes, and oh my god, I'm totally peer pressuring you into drinking." She buries her face into his shoulder. "I'm the worst. I'm so dumb. I'm—I'm so sorry."

She feels a gentle pressure on her back as he scoops her into his arms, and she snuggles into his chest, sniffling a little bit. "You don't—you don't have to do anything. Oh, god, I'm sorry."

She feels a peck on the side of her head. "It's okay."

They lie in bed, him on his back, her curled up against one of his arms. Moonlight streams in from an open window, illuminating a sliver of his face in shades of soft and glowy. A somber autumn wind brushes against them, and she snuggles deeper under the covers.

"Seto?"

He sighs softly. "Yes?"

She pauses, trying to make the words come out tactfully. "The drinking thing. Is it like, a childhood thing?"

"Excuse me?"

She sighs. "Okay, sorry. I don't really know how to put it. Is it a Gozaburo thing? Were there like...bad experiences in your past?"

A moment of uncomfortable silence stretches between them. In her head she imagines the worst, starts rehearsing ways to backtrack: okay, you know what, never mind, let's just go to bed, sorry I'm the worst girlfriend in the history of the-

"No, it's not a Gozaburo thing," he says finally, definitely. "Gozaburo never drank. At least, I don't...remember him drinking. It wasn't a problem." She can feel him shudder. "Drinking wasn't the problem with that motherfucker."

Another moment of silence. She gulps. "Is it, like...is it a Yugi thing?"

"Kisara, what the hell."

"Okay, geez, sorry I asked."

Silence. Tense, awkward, bitter silence. "...is it, though? Did you have some kind of like, drinking problem after the whole...Yugi thing?"

He exhales deeply. "I did not have a drinking problem after the 'whole Yugi thing', Kisara. I have never been into the 'whole drinking thing'. I've never been to a goddamn party."

"Oooooooohhhhhhhh." She inhales deeply over the word, stretching out for a good five seconds.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks. His voice is a little bit accusatory.

"It means—you're mad that you never did the normal teenager thing. Alcohol is like, your proxy to be mad that you were never part of the normal crowd. You're bitter because you think everyone else did something and you didn't. You were alone, because you had your big important job and you know, the whole Yugi thing."

All she gets back is a grunt.

"Okay—look, okay? So you spent your teenage years being mad about someone else being better than you at card games and taking care of your little brother and running a company. I mean, seriously, high school parties are kind of stupid. College parties are even worse. Either the cops show up, or someone ends up in the hospital, or the neighbors threaten to report everyone to the police, or like, it's just stupid."

More silence. The rough equivalent of four shots of whiskey is beginning to wear off—she can feel her inane words bouncing around the inside of her skull, the precursor to a morning migraine.

"I'm sorry you felt like you were alone."

"I am alone, Kisara."

"Oh, what the fuck. No, you're not. You have Mokie. You have me."

His voice is tense—almost tense enough to waver, or maybe it's just her imagination. "I don't have friends, Kisara. Since we've gotten together, you've been alone, too. When was the last time you saw one of your friends? I'm a big black hole, and I'm alone, and now you are, too."

She sighs, brings herself closer to him, rests her head on his shoulder. "Have you ever considered that I never really liked people?" she asks finally.

She pauses to kiss him on the cheek. "Seto, I don't really like people. I never had a lot of friends. I never needed a lot of friends.

I'm sorry I brought it up, okay? I should have known better than to bring up the past. So, I'm sorry."

He huffs.

"Let's just go to bed."