Sometimes the point of a story like this is to just have fun. Sometimes, that's the most noble thing you can do.

Sometimes, it's to ask the hard questions. To delve into the shit that I don't necessarily like to think about. Because sometimes, that's just as important as anything else could be.


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In any other circumstance but this one, Seto would not have dressed in black formal-wear. He would have worn a suit, because that was the majority of his wardrobe these days, but it would have been whatever he'd worn to work that morning. He certainly wouldn't have gone out of his way to be as crisp and solemn as possible.

But he wasn't here for himself.

Mokuba certainly wouldn't have worn anything remotely like a suit. He would have dressed in swim trunks and flip-flops if left to his own devices. He would have gone out of his way to wear that frayed, oil-stained jacket from the last time he'd gone "a touch too far" on a science project.

But Mokuba wasn't here for himself, either.

They both watched, quietly and with unreadable expressions, as Noa knelt at his father's headstone.

"Aniue?"

"Yes, Noa."

"How—how did he die?"

Seto closed his eyes. Squared his shoulders. When he looked at the boy in front of him again, there was a new kind of resolve in him. He said: "I had recently turned fifteen. I had everything in order. I knew that everything was in place, and that all I had to do—to wrest Kaiba-Corp from him—was confront him. Everything was done. The throne was mine. All I had to do was claim it."

Noa looked over his shoulder, up at Seto. He had never looked younger than in that moment.

"I strode into his office. The Big Five were there, watching like the Roman Senate, waiting for me to declare myself. I showed him. I made an absolute performance out of it. I watched as each of his oldest allies stood from their chairs to stand behind me, and I saw in his eyes that he knew I'd won."

Mokuba looked pained. He looked angry, sad, and bored all at once. He stared off into the distance and said nothing.

"For a moment," Seto said, softly, almost gently, "I thought he would congratulate me. I thought he would shake my hand. I thought he would call me son for the first time."

Something like heartbreak struck Noa's face, as Mokuba flinched violently and turned even further away, until his back was almost turned to them both.

"Instead," Seto continued, "he laughed. Declared himself the loser of our little game. And pitched himself out the window of his office. He fell. Fell. Fell. He wasn't about to let me have my victory. Not the way I wanted it. He wasn't going to give me the validation I'd been craving. That wasn't in his nature. He wanted to build a Kaiba. And so, a Kaiba he built."

Noa's face fell. "I . . . I'm sorry."

"Yeah," Seto said, breath coming up short. "Me, too."

"Is it . . . is it wrong that I . . . that I still . . . ? I. I still love him."

"No," Seto said, too sharply; Noa flinched. "No, it's not wrong. He was your father."

"But . . ."

"Mokuba," Seto said, and it was the other boy's turn to flinch. "Answer me truthfully. If I was the monster that the press sometimes makes out of me. If every rumor that my contemporaries tried to spread about me was true. Would you stand by me? Would you love me?"

Mokuba thought about this. Mulled it over. Something seemed to occur to him, some manner or breakthrough. He nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I would. You could be a thief, a con-man, you could be a serial killer. It wouldn't matter. Not to me. Not really."

Seto glanced at Noa expectantly.

"It feels different," Noa mumbled.

"It isn't." Seto slipped his hands into his pockets. "There is a part of me, a part that I am loathe to recognize, but a part nonetheless, which still yearns for his approval. There is a part of me that grieves for the fact that I'll never get it. I wanted a father, and just because he didn't want to be one doesn't change me."

Mokuba was staring at his shoes. "Is it wrong that I don't?" he asked.

"No," said Seto. Then he smiled, rather sadly. "He hurt your brothers, after all. Didn't he?"

Mokuba nodded. "He did. He definitely did."

"I heard," Noa said, "and I believed, for a long time, that . . . that you killed him."

"It was a common enough refrain," Seto admitted. "I never fought particularly hard to quash it. It helped my reputation. People took me seriously, particularly his old contacts, and I decided that the specifics didn't matter in the long run. I could equivocate, I could quibble about the details, but why? Whether I killed him or simply drove him to suicide, what difference does it make?"

"I think it makes a pretty big difference," Mokuba said. "He didn't—he didn't jump out that window because you hurt him. He did it to hurt you. You did what he wanted. He always said he was training you to be a warrior. It was how he justified everything that happened to you under his roof. It was making you stronger. It was making you sharper. You didn't ask for that. You didn't ask for any of that. All you wanted, all you asked for, was a chance to live. What every kid deserves. You just wanted somebody to look out for you. He was supposed to. He didn't. When he died, it was just another example of him failing you."

Seto shrugged. "Most of me agrees with that," he said.

Noa shuffled his feet. "I wish I'd had a different father. It wouldn't be so complicated, if I could just . . . If I could . . ."

"If you want a different father, you can have one."

Noa blinked. Looked up at Seto, then turned to Mokuba, then back to Seto. "I. What do you—Aniue, what does that . . . ?"

Seto's smile came back, and it wasn't sad this time.

"Come on, you two. Let's get something to eat."