The dynamic between Mokuba and Ryou here is based on a long-running theory in my head that Ryou would get along pretty famously with the Kaibas. I don't know why. I can't pinpoint it to save my life. But there's just something about him that fits into the Kaibas' tapestry.

I decided to use this AU as a springboard to explore the idea.

I'm not gonna say I was right, just yet. But I don't think I've been proven wrong, either.

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Ryou Bakura's reaction to Mokuba's sudden admission was equally as devastated as Mokuba's was nonchalant. Which was to say that all the emotions that should have been rushing through Mokuba's blood—considering the implications, the ripple effects, of Gozaburo Kaiba's death if absolutely nothing else—seemed to have abandoned him to take up residence in Ryou's gentle, cultured, soft face.

"Oh . . . oh, my God . . ." Ryou's face was a crash course in what Mokuba was sure that he should have been feeling. "I . . . Mokuba, I'm so sorry, I . . ."

Mokuba's eyes flitted with almost-tears, but all the same he felt a smile tweaking his lips. "It's . . . it's okay. It's fine." Then he chuckled. "He's been sick for a long . . . time now. This is kind of a relief, to be honest."

Why was there so much guilt in Ryou's face? Why did he look like he was ready to bolt from the room and flee the country? The laughter bubbling up in Mokuba's throat disappeared as quickly as it had manifested, and he was left feeling so tired that he thought he might strip straight past sleep and into another state of being entirely.

Ryou's face scrunched up a bit. "You don't look . . . relieved, if you don't mind my saying. I mean, you do, but . . ." He blinked. "This doesn't bother you at all. Does it? You aren't sad. You aren't angry. You're just . . . relieved." Mokuba opened his mouth, but words wouldn't come. "W-What . . . did he do to you?"

People talked about big questions. Usually in the context of politics, or religion. Who are we? Why are we here? What is the meaning of life? Mokuba Kaiba had never spent much time ruminating on those questions, or others like them, because they never seemed to matter. He had made a habit, in fact, of taking questions and slicing them into little pieces so as to better process them. His life was filled with thousands of tiny questions and even tinier answers.

The gravity of Ryou's question, the weight of it, felt like the earth itself settling seductively onto Mokuba's shoulders. And Mokuba realized in that moment that, since he'd never bothered to answer big questions, he had no experience with them.

He almost offered up the truth. He almost opened the floodgates.

He almost screamed.

But then . . .

"N-Nothing to write home about, Ryou. I won't lie and tell you you're wrong. Whatever you're thinking. My father wouldn't win any awards. But that's as far as it goes for today." Ryou flinched again. He looked ready to cry. "Anyway, I have to go. I have to check on Seto. I have to . . . make sure he's okay."

"Is that really a . . . concern?" Ryou blurted out, and something new was in his voice now. Something dark. Something cosmic. But then Mokuba blinked and it was gone. His new friend was suddenly nervous and uncomfortable again. Ryou fidgeted and looked around the room. "I mean, well . . . look. Clearly your relationship with your father is . . . wasn't very—n-never mind. I just mean . . . if you're relieved, I would venture to think your brother would be, too. Right?"

Mokuba sighed heavily. His eyebrows went up again, and he studied the table again.

"No. He's probably devastated. In fact, I'm sure he is. And that, my lords, ladies, and gentlemen . . . was the genius of Gozaburo Kaiba."

The new Kaiba patriarch turned on a heel, and started to leave.

"You take care of yourself, Ryou. I have to go gather up whatever shards and pieces that old bastard left of my brother's heart."