People talk about "suspension of disbelief," and I wonder about that sometimes, because it's a conceit that always comes out when you're dealing with fiction. Particularly my favored genres, which always seem to fall under the heading of "speculative fiction" these days.
I'm not sure if this snapshot counts as "speculative," nor if it requires suspension of disbelief. Part of me thinks they've earned this. But if they haven't, well, consider it the best way I could conjure up to get this point out.
It felt important.
.
"Ever look back on life 'n like, wonder what happened to you? Wonder whether the you from back then would recognize the you from now? What they'd think o' you?"
Seto wasn't sure when it was that he and Joey Wheeler had reached that social sphere wherein it was not only acceptable but perfectly normal to wax poetic on life's innumerable philosophies when they happened to meet in public, but it surprised him to realize that—instead of instantly coming up with an excuse to back out of conversation and a new insult to lay at the blond's feet—instead he started coming up with an actual answer.
"Assuming the . . . me from back then, as you put it, knew enough internal details to make an informed opinion on me," Seto said, "then I'm pretty sure he . . . I . . . would be confused and disgusted."
Joey screwed up his face into a scowl and barked out what Seto was sure had to be an accurate facsimile of his own signature growl: "You're mingling with him?! Willingly? He's the social equivalent of take-out Chinese! Where'd you hide your dignity?"
Seto smirked, but it was friendly. A silent offer of laughter, however that would be possible. "Something like that."
"Lot of stuff I been thinkin' about, lately . . . seems to come straight out of frickin' Harry Potter," Joey said after a moment. "Can't be a proper nerd if ya don't jump in, right? Kinda part of the job description at this point."
"I used to read them to Mokuba," Seto said, "and eventually he started accusing me of enjoying them."
Joey laughed. "Right? Yeah, well, wouldn't really do for me to off 'n read a bunch o' fantasy books to Serenity, y'know? So I gotta do the sad thing and read 'em on my own." He waited a beat. Apparently there was enough of him that remembered their old social dynamic that he was waiting for an indication that this conversation was worth continuing.
Seto manufactured interest in the point.
General tolerance of someone's presence didn't necessarily mean interest, but one of the hardest lessons that Seto had learned in the past few years was that social graces were actually useful.
"That whole Boggart thing kinda floored me, y'know? Like, I couldn't help but wonder, what would my worst fear . . . how'd Yugi put it? Be 'made manifest in magic?'" He offered an odd look. "Ever think about that?"
It was something that Seto hadn't quite realized he had thought about. It was a cripplingly intimate question, and had it been asked of him even a couple of months ago, the him from then would have told Wheeler to shove off and find a freeway to play hopscotch on. Or something equally sharp-witted and clever.
But again, the elder Kaiba found himself able to answer. Odd enough, he supposed, but the simple fact that he wanted to answer struck him suddenly, almost blindsided him, and he couldn't help but think that Mokuba had a point. Perhaps, perhaps, he and Joey Wheeler were friends now.
He forced the world to realign itself properly by telling himself that he'd never admit it out loud. The words, once spoken, would weave a spell on reality. And Seto Kaiba had no time nor tolerance for magic.
Odd, considering the apparent content of this afternoon's discussion.
Seto said, slowly at first, "I suppose it would be no surprise to you if I told you I see my brother." Joey blinked, perhaps equally surprised that Seto was actually engaging in this hypothetical. "The easy answer would be to see his corpse. The author uses that crutch more than once. But I hate easy answers. They're too seductive. Too . . . lex parsimoniae. Just because it's simple doesn't make it right, particularly when dealing with something with the label of 'worst fear.'"
"Occam's razor?" Joey asked, and Seto blinked. "Yeah, I know. My brain's full o' stupid shit. Yeah, okay, I gotcha. Makes sense. I mean, sure, maybe somethin' like that'd make your Top 10 Fears of the Last Decade, or whatever. But the gold medal can't go to somethin' that easy, right? That's what you're sayin'?"
"Precisely."
"Okay . . . so you thought about this. Obviously. Comes to mind I didn't actually ask you what yours'd be. So I'll ask: what is it? What do you see? Y'know, if you're inclined to answer."
Seto might have taken the way out, decided that no, he'd rather not divulge this information; certainly he wouldn't have done it in the past, and obviously not to this particular specimen.
And yet he found himself answering, again.
He said: "My worst fear . . . and this likely explains why I think the person I was would hate me. He was entirely too arrogant to understand this. If I fear anything, it's failure. And so my worst fear would be seeing irrevocable, irretrievable proof of failure."
"And that's . . . not the kid dyin'," Joey said. "It somethin' else. What's worse, in your head, than that? What would be irretrievable proof that you failed him?"
". . . If he turns out like me."
