I've spent thousands upon thousands of words over the past decade on Seto Kaiba. Kaiba Seto. The guy with the propensity for flashy holograms and monetary rule-screwing. And that locket thing. Does that make me a fanboy? I certainly hope so. If not, it makes me wonder what the prerequisites for such an institution are, and whether I want any part of it.

In all that time, I like to think that I've honed his particular brand of arrogant snark into an art form. That's part of why this collection exists: as proof that I can put this man into any situation, and know how he'll react. I've come to know him so well that actually watching him in anime form becomes this weird, surreal kind of dream-state where reality starts bending and weaving like light rays in a mirage.

I've written this guy a lot, is what I'm getting at. The thing is, I've spent the vast majority of that experience focused on his later years, because trench coat. But before he donned his first duster like it was some custom-tailored chrysalis (I like alliteration), that Kaiba kid did other things besides scowl and play cards.

Every once in a while, or so the legends say, he would actually have a good time.

I thought I'd try my hand at one.


The man was still grieving. There was no use even asking, as the proof of it was literally carved into the prominent, canyon-like wrinkles set into his brow, and the greying of his dark brown hair; he was still in his thirties.

The woman with him, who was slipping her keys into her purse, was about fifteen years older than he was, but just by virtue of her disposition she looked much younger.

The heartbreakingly premature death of Yagami Yuki had left a gaping chasm in the hearts of everyone who had ever met her, but nowhere was the healing of that chasm so polarized than in her best friend and her husband. Valery Hitcher, who had come to think of Yuki as a surrogate little sister, had resolved to live in honor of her. She'd started painting again, she'd taken that trip to New York City, and she'd asked Joel to marry her.

Yagami Kohaku had given up.

He still worked. He worked harder than he ever had. He worked full-time at one job and part-time at two others. He kept his children sheltered, and he kept them fed. Every once in a blue moon, he took his two boys out to a nice dinner, or a baseball game, or attended a school function. But one look at his deadened grey eyes told the truth.

Kohaku had died right alongside his beloved bride, and the only reason he was still breathing was because his body was too stubborn and lost to know any better.

The two of them, these pillars of grief—one coping, one drowning—stepped into the living room of the Yagamis' home, and the scene that unfolded before them very nearly stopped their hearts.

Seto was seated on the floor, legs tucked and folded underneath him; he had both thin arms out in front of him, and the look on his face was half-excited, half-agonized. "That's it…" he murmured gently, coaxingly. "Come on. You can do it, Mokie."

Little Mokuba, dressed in pajamas far too big for him—the sleeves of the shirt and the legs of the pants were rolled up several times—was waging a life-or-death battle against gravity and inertia as he stumbled forward on wobbling legs. He would take one jerking step forward, then tumble to the floor, and every time he did Seto would hiss in a breath and have to force himself still. Then Mokuba would cry out in frustration and clamber upright again.

Valery's lips mouthed the words, "Oh, my Lord…" but her voice had left her.

Kohaku's face was completely unreadable.

She knew why. Almost a decade ago, on this very floor, this scene had played out in almost the exact same way. Except instead of an eight-year-old boy sitting on the floor struggling between wanting to laugh and wanting to scream, it had been a twenty-seven-year-old woman and a twenty-eight-year-old man. And instead of a little black-haired toddler taking his first steps, it had been a little brown-haired one.

Valery could see them, cheering on their firstborn and having to remind themselves to let him walk all on his own, having to remind themselves that their baby's grunts and babbling wasn't him asking for help this time, but asking them to stay right where they were—all of it was choreographed right there on Seto's face as he watched his brother.

Five minutes passed, with Valery and Kohaku watching silently as Mokuba shuffled and stumbled toward Seto's waiting arms. When he finally made it, Seto laughed. It was a lovely sound, bright and honest. It crossed Valery's mind that, in all the years she'd looked after him on weekends, and all the home movies Yuki had loved to show off, this was the first time Valery had ever heard the Yagamis' little genius laugh like that.

Seto hugged Mokuba to him, lifted him up into the air and rocked back and forth. "You did it!" he cried. "You did it, Mokie! What a big boy! Good boy, Mokie! Good job!"

Mokuba, for his part, was giggling and grinning from ear to ear, clearly pleased with himself. He was the first to notice his audience, and thrust out an arm toward them. Seto glanced over, and it was clear from the way his sparkling eyes widened that he'd had no clue they were there.

Instead of his usual somber greeting, Seto grinned like a fool and said, "Did you see? Mokie can walk!"

Valery blinked back tears and choked out, "Y-Yes. I saw."

Then Kohaku did something then that surprised even Mokuba, who was staring at the both of them like he couldn't understand why the big people weren't cheering and laughing, too. The boys' father squatted down, a tiny little smile playing at his cracked lips, and he said, "My eyes aren't what they used to be. Let's see if he can show me again."

Kohaku held out his arms.