This story is certainly gaining a bit more traction than its companion piece, which I suppose I expected. Blueshipping has some validity in canon, after all, whereas Slumbershipping has . . . well, absolutely none.

I feel I should note, though, that these stories ARE connected. I'm using these one-shot scenes to gain an understanding on how these relationships would work, so expect references to both IN both.

Nonetheless, this story's focus is Seto and Kisara. So that's who we're visiting today.

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The eldest of the (now) three Kaiba siblings didn't like to think of himself as impatient, per se, so much as selective about what he allowed to take up his time. To wit: he did not like to spend valuable time fixing something that he shouldn't have to fix. Like his own . . . fucking oven.

"Just . . . go pack," Seto snapped; it wasn't enough to just pinch the bridge of his nose, or rub his temple. He ended up rubbing his entire face, doing his level best to stay calm because that was what the various therapists in his employ—for the others working at the Kaiba Corporation, not for himself, thank you very much—kept telling him to be. Calm. Cool. Collected. Don't let the little things take up residence in your thoughts, Kaiba-shachou. You have enough to be getting on with.

These therapists had yet to understand just what it meant to live with Noa Kaiba.

Seto barely had time to roll up his sleeves, kneel down in front of the offending appliance—which was still smoking—and start taking inventory of what his adoptive sibling-turned-unruly-pet might have done when Noa came jaunting back into the room with a grin on his face. "Done!"

Seto stared at the young man who damn near shared his face. ". . . You expect me to believe that you've finished packing in two minutes."

Noa tilted his head. "Did most of it last night. We've got sleeping bags, tents, cutlery, dishes, that flimsy little propane oven thing . . . ooh! Trail mix!" And he skipped over the kitchen to invade the pantry. "Ah-ha! There you are, you tricky little . . . !"

Sometimes, Seto tried to remember what his life had been like before he'd found out that the man who'd given him his name had once had a living, breathing, blood relative. Sometimes he tried to remember the little boy that blood relative had been. With his crisp white jacket and shorts, and his loafers, and his maniac's grin. Mokuba had always felt a certain kinship with Noa, even before his loyalties had been tested, and Seto had a running theory that that had more than a little to do with why he, himself, had so many problems with the last scion of the Old Kaiba Name.

It wasn't so much that Seto doubted Noa's loyalty. It was a simple lack of understanding.

Who was this boy? How could he change faces so often? How could he be—all at once—a sociopath, a raging lunatic, an excitable little puppy? Brother, best friend, crazy uncle, prodigal son?

. . . Doting boyfriend?

Seto eyed Ryou Bakura, standing in the doorway, from his vantage point on the floor. "Feel free to rein him in at any time," Seto muttered, and then very nearly climbed into the oven. His voice echoed when he spoke next: "I won't be offended at all."

Seto didn't see Ryou smile, but he didn't have to.

"Say what you want about his . . . methods, Mister Kaiba," Ryou said, with something like laughter in his voice, "but he's happy. That must count for something."

Seto wondered about that. Happy? Noa Kaiba . . . happy?

It seemed farfetched to him.

"Go track down Mokuba's boots," Seto snapped at Noa as he danced around the room, gathering so many different items that it looked like he was preparing for a yard sale. "They were misplaced somewhere down the line, and you have entirely too much energy to let it go to waste." He waited a beat. "Now."

Noa snapped to attention, saluted. "Aye-aye, mon capitan!" said he.

He disappeared.

After a moment, Seto looked at Ryou. "Keep an eye on him."

Ryou bowed his head. "Yes, sir."

And with that, Seto was left alone to work. It was four-thirty in the morning on a Saturday, and the youngest CEO in the hemisphere was neck-deep in whatever science experiment his synthetic twin had thrown into the oven for breakfast. The silence should have calmed him—it usually did—but this morning it had the exact opposite effect.

Seto found himself nervous.

Eventually he stood up, decided the task of getting the kitchen back into working order fell under the purview of the kitchen staff, and found himself ascending the stairs to the second floor. He did not seek out his own bedroom. Once he was up for the day, that was it. Seto wasn't one for napping. Instead, he decided he would engage in the actions of a proper guardian, and check up on his brother.

After all, some part of him thought, this camping trip was his idea. He should be intimately involved in its preparations.

Seto stepped up to Mokuba's bedroom door, and opened it.

There, collapsed on the bed in a heap, was his brother.

And his fiancée.

Mokuba lay snuggled up against Kisara, while Kisara had her chin resting against the top of Mokuba's head and an arm flung across his shoulders.

Both were fast asleep.

Seto closed his eyes and shook his head.

"Hopeless," he muttered under his breath as he walked away.

The smile that spread on his lips was entirely unconscious.