I won't lie and tell you fine folks that I know where this story is going to end. I don't. All I know is this: it's going to be a bumpy, winding, treacherous sort of road that takes us to that end. Isn't that how it always goes?

But still. There's something particularly insidious, I think, about the changes offered by this AU. I don't know why that's the first word that comes to mind when I write this. I know that the first word that came to mind when I found Kintatsujo's artwork was "ADORABLE" so where's the darkness come from?

Clearly, my own traitorous imagination.

But still. Like any tale involving the Kaibas, no matter what their ages … there may be trials, but there will also be rewards.

I guess what I'm saying here is … give them time. They'll work it out.

They always do.

.

On the day his life shattered into too many pieces, Seto Kaiba walked through the halls of his home like a king, even though he was—by a wide, wide margin—the smallest member of the household. Everyone knew that he was the master's favorite, and this included Seto himself. This fact had been drilled into him for several years now, and it had reached the point that he didn't even notice the servants passing by. He didn't see them walking, he didn't see them stop, he didn't see them bow their heads.

When a member of the kitchen staff added a song to the old dance—saying "Good afternoon, Bocchan" as he passed—Seto blinked and looked around for a moment, before realizing that an actual person had spoken to him. He stared up at the man, then smiled. Yes, he might have been thinking; there was no way to honestly tell, that is appropriate. I am Bocchan, and Bocchan is me.

Typically, Seto was no fan of cutesy nicknames. He much preferred to be given the proper respect that was due his position and his ability. But, since "Your Highness" was apparently inappropriate, he settled for "Bocchan" because . . . well, it had a certain ring to it, and really . . . it was pretty close. And traditional.

Mokuba, for his part, seemed to find it funny. "Our family immigrated to the U.S. about twenty years ago, kiddo," he would say. "You barely know six phrases in Japanese, just about all of them picked up because you're a snob and refuse to watch Power Rangers in English like the rest of us. What's this talk of 'tradition?'"

To which Seto had seventeen perfectly acceptable answers. None of them had swayed the elder Kaiba brother so far.

. . . He knew a lot more than six phrases.

When Seto made it to the top of the stairs and set foot on the second-floor hallway, carrying a tray of sandwiches and peeled fruits like he was escorting priceless treasures, he turned left. This was significant because he was the only one allowed to turn left these days. Ever since the master had fallen ill, only a certain number of trusted members of the staff had been permitted to see him. Now that the Kaiba patriarch was bedridden, that list had shortened considerably.

To two people, actually.

"Daimon . . . and me," Seto murmured under his breath. His face turned smug.

As if summoned by the sound of his name, the squat old troll who acted as Gozaburo Kaiba's right hand spirited his way down the hall, going in the opposite direction. His glasses gleamed with an otherworldly polish, and Seto felt a twinge of superstitious fear.

He blamed this on his brother. Mokuba was always talking about how Daimon was dangerous. Though, Mokuba would never say why. Still, his brother thought the old man was bad news, and part of Seto would always listen to his brother without question. It was like instinct.

Nobody knew how old Daimon actually was. Some members of the house staff were convinced that he'd appeared, already old and bitter, on the day that the Kaiba Estate had been built. They said he wouldn't die until the house disappeared . . . destroyed by a fire, maybe. Or torn down, brick by brick. Exorcized. Cleansed.

Seto realized with a sudden jolt that it wasn't just Mokuba who didn't trust Gozaburo's second-in-command.

The young Kaiba tossed these thoughts away as he stepped up to his father's bedroom door. He lifted up his tray, pushed down the ornate brass handle with the back of one hand, and pushed the door open with his opposite shoulder. This he did in absolute silence.

There was a small table to Seto's left inside the room, where Gozaburo kept certain Important Things™. Books, and contracts, and correspondence with big-wigs from every corner of the world. Seto set the food there, and turned toward his father's four-poster bed.

"Father," Seto said softly. "I've brought lunch. Are you hungry?"

He waited. No answer.

Gozaburo had first gone to the hospital four months ago. Discreetly, secretly, as he did most everything. No one knew what it was that could drive a Kaiba to his knees like this sickness had, but everyone had started to talk about what would happen if Gozaburo never left his bed again. Who would run his empire? Who would handle his business?

Me, Seto thought with a frightening kind of conviction, but that doesn't matter. Father won't die. He'll beat this, like he beats everything, and everyone will feel pretty stupid when he does.

"Must be sleeping," Seto murmured aloud.

He approached the bed, just in case. It wouldn't do to assume Gozaburo was sleeping and just leave, then find out later that he just hadn't heard Seto's question, or had simply opted not to answer. Gozaburo didn't sit well with even the most minor of offenses, regardless of why they'd been committed.

Seto's brain took in the sight of his father without much real interest, at first. He just assumed the most obvious scenario—Ah-doy, of course he was sleeping!—and had actually turned to leave. Then he turned back.

Something was wrong.

"Father?"

His father's eyes were almost closed. But they weren't. They weren't closed, and that was wrong. Why was he just lying there, staring at the ceiling? Why wasn't he shifting his weight? Why weren't his sheets moving around, from his breathing?

Gozaburo Kaiba was a big man, big as life, and his presence had always been even bigger. Even confined to his quarters, tucked into his bed, the man had been a thunderstorm.

Why . . . why were his lips blue?

"Father? Father?"

Seto grabbed his father's arm. It was cold. Stiff.

Unyielding.

"Oh . . . o-oh, no. No. No-no-no."

Seto's voice hitched in his throat. Broke. The shards threatened to strangle him.

". . . Papa?"

Seto Kaiba screamed.