Title: Grave Robber
Summary: Seto wanted to take his secrets to the grave, but when a class project lands him and Joey closer than desired, those secrets become harder to protect than ever. Especially when Joey is discovering the common ground they share.
Contains: Yoai, lemon in random chapters, references to child abuse and molestation, sudden flashbacks, arguments, and occasionally ooc-ness
Pairing: Seto X Joey
Disclaimer: I do not own yu-gi-oh or the characters, I also make no money from the writing of this fanfic.
Author's Note: There are undertones of compassion on Kaiba's part, but not OOC gushy, secret, repressed love. Just neglected feelings of concern.
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Seto rubbed at his face with his hands in an attempt to keep his eyes from closing and staying that way and because he was generally frustrated. It was eleven at night, Mokuba was asleep, and he'd just finally gotten home. Whenever he had a meeting with I2 there was too much work to be done to expect any rest. As much as he hated to admit it, even if Wheeler had agreed to the morning meeting, he still wouldn't have been able to make it home for dinner.
It was just easier on himself to tell Mokuba that he wasn't coming home because he had schoolwork he needed to complete there instead of using the classic "sorry, kid, I have work tonight" excuse. At least he'd thought that it would have been easier; Mokuba was getting older, and when boys got older they challenged everything they heard.
"If it was Joey, why didn't you let him come here? You can eat and work at the same time—that's what I do." He'd spouted some stuff over the phone in response to that, pathetic excuses, but when it came right down to it, he and Mokuba both knew that there was still more work to be done. Work that couldn't be done anywhere except for the office.
Seto sighed in frustration and started up the laptop on his desk.
Invite Joey into his house? Why would he do something like that, even if Mokuba requested it? He'd get paw prints all over the furniture…
There was another question in the back of Seto's mind as well, a less comfortable one. If he hated that mutt so much, why did he waste his breath teaching him little business tips that probably wouldn't help the punk in whatever lowlife career path he chose?
He hadn't been thinking, and he couldn't help himself—he saw something uneducated and he wanted to teach it. Even if it was just a filthy mongrel like Joey Wheeler.
Whatever it had been—correcting Wheeler's foolish mistakes—generosity or a bad habit, Seto reassured himself that he wouldn't allow it to happen again. If the dog wanted to start business propositions on a negative foot, so be it.
Seto felt a shudder run through his body despite his efforts to stifle it as he breezed through his computer's security precautions to access the last tendrils of his life's work.
What idiot didn't know how to start a proposal? Even before Gozaburo's teachings, he'd known to speak positively about every idea and leave the product's weaknesses in the dark.
His body shuddered again and he rolled back his shoulders as if the tremor was nothing more than a stiff muscle. In sympathy of the mock-wound, Seto's left hand went to the portion of his neck where it attached to the shoulder and massaged gently. Subconsciously, he let his hand fall back to the desk, but only after running his hand from the back of his shoulder, forward until caressing the fabric that covered the side his throat.
There were scars there, buried under the fabric Seto remembered, but he barely recalled them at the worst of times so having their presence return to his mind that night was an unwelcome surprise. It was essential to keep such scars hidden, the media did not need more dirt in which to dig, but hiding them wasn't hard. Most of the shirts he owned were work shirts—that is to say, they all buttoned up to the middle of his throat and required a tie. When they didn't, he had trench coats with raised collars. If he didn't think that even the collar of the coat would suffice and he didn't feel like wearing a tie, there was always a high-necked sweater to be found. These clothes had been deemed his "style".
When, at first, he'd had to consciously pick these outfits (with Gozaburo's guiding hand all the while), every shirt he saw had him pondering. "Is the neck too low? Will they see? Do they know already?" Now, he'd been ordering shirts similar in style for over six years and he didn't have to think about hiding scars. The types of shirts he'd once been restricted to buying he now bought because he'd become accustomed to seeing himself in them and could imagine himself in nothing else.
Still…sometimes, whenever he felt that work was piling up, not getting done properly, or just—in general—stressed, he could feel the constriction of a different collar than that of his shirt on his windpipe.
It was just Gozaburo's way to torture him from beyond the grave, wasn't it?
Seto began typing heavily, trying to keep him mind focused only on the work he was completing and how quickly and efficiently he was completing it.
Aside from the dog collar, another thought kept resurfacing in his mind.
That dog Wheeler.
When he first saw and spoke to that scrap of a human being, all he could think of was how ignorant the mutt was to the ways of the world.
In Gozaburo's terms, all ignorant creatures were dogs. Seto was a dog. Mokuba was a dog. Joey Wheeler was a dog.
Dogs wore collars.
If Seto had been drinking, he was sure he would have spat out his beverage in joint horror and surprise.
Ignorant humans were humans.
Wheeler was a human.
Humans. Don't. Wear. Collars…
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A/N: If it doesn't click, Seto pictured Joey in a collar.