Yu-Gi-Oh! Fan Fiction ❯ Web of Fate ❯ old conflicts, new resolutions ( Chapter 6 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Disclaimer: Yugioh (the game, the cards, the characters, etc, etc) doesn’t belong to me. And I’m certainly not making any profit -mourns-

Author’s Notes: Shock, horror - I’m actually updating again. I know, I know. Such a shocking move from me since I usually take so long to update; the times for monthly updates are gone, I’m afraid. However, I am trying.

Since I’m not a chess champion (nor do I actually play the game), the chess scenes with Gozaburo are somewhat vague. I hope that even though the game isn’t as detailed as I’d like for it to be, the characterisation and the storyline doesn’t suffer. And a thank you to Dragon for giving me a quick rundown of chess strategies. I certainly came away with more of an understanding for the game, even though I didn’t think I could successfully imitate a grandmaster chess champion, a young ruthless genius, and the soon-to-be King of Games.

Dragon, I’m glad that you’re still enjoying this. Lol. I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as the last - even though I know some of the plot threads you’re so patiently waiting for still aren’t picked up yet. ;) Still, would more S/Y angst be sufficient?

A very big thank you goes out to BroodingAuthor and Moe for their thorough and quick beta-ing. They kicked this chapter’s butt and made it passable for public consumption.

Completed: September 2005

old conflicts, new resolutions

Bakura watched the boy with the Puzzle closely. He watched him while they were in class, his eyes moving away every so often just to make sure no one could accuse him of spying. He watched him as they left class, grunting infrequently at Ryou’s inane chatter; and after, when they were going to the cafeteria for lunch, he was still eyeing the boy and the Puzzle.

Ryou was no fool. Bakura knew this well enough having been at the end of Ryou’s very perceptive glare one too many times in his trouble-making life. Ryou knew all his tricks; worst yet, he knew when Bakura was going to make trouble for (mostly) innocent people. So Bakura was unsurprised when after placing various types of food he deemed healthy enough onto Bakura’s tray (like Bakura followed the apple-a-day rule as religiously as his twin; blood only went so far), Ryou nudged him and pointedly stared at a table nearby.

After they had both sat down and Bakura had finished mumbling something unpleasant under his breath, Ryou - ignoring him - started rearranging his sandwiches, juice, and apple. Bakura didn’t even notice - he was back to staring at the Puzzle with something akin to longing and anger, and he still couldn’t figure out why. It was instinct mainly, but some of it came from that all too brief flash he’d experienced when he first went into the classroom. For a moment there, he wasn’t who he had thought he was and all he’d known was pain and anger and death. Then, that fleeting knowledge had been gone as quickly as it had came, leaving Bakura confused - that was, until his eyes had lit upon a Puzzle that he just knew would somehow answer all his questions; explain this confusing mess it had started. And Bakura was sure the Puzzle had started this - this - what ever the fuck this was. Bakura had never encountered something like this in all of his sixteen years of life; the Puzzle being here was no coincidence - not with the way his Ring had reacted.

Completely focused on the next table, Bakura wasn’t aware of Ryou’s contemplative attention on him. He didn’t even realise Ryou had finished his daily lunch routine until Ryou casually sipped his carton of orange juice and said, “You know, it wouldn’t be too hard to get to know them.”

Bakura finally took his eyes away from the Puzzle. From his peripheral view, he could distantly see the boy walk towards the other two new students in their school, and suddenly, Bakura felt that sharp electric sensation again. During class, he had hardly even glanced at the new students; all he’d cared about was keeping the boy and the Puzzle in sight. It was too late when he realised he should have taken a better look at their new additions. It wasn’t until Ryou was dragging his lagging body to their next class that Bakura had gotten a closer look at the Kaibas, catching the extremely close resemblance between the boy and spiky-haired, red-eyed Kaiba. Again, that flash of familiarity had hit Bakura, but that time, unlike the first time, no images had cascaded through his mind like a high-speed slideshow. He didn’t know which was worse: the frustration at grasping familiar visuals that wouldn’t stay in his mind long enough, or the frustration at having something just beyond the edge of his knowledge.

He decided that he hated both, and asked distractedly, “What do you mean?”

“I meant, if you wanted to make friends with them, it shouldn’t be too hard.”

At this, Bakura turned his attention back to Ryou just in time to see him roll his eyes and take a bite out of his chicken sandwich. He narrowed his eyes. “Who are you talking about?”

“Them,” Ryou gestured at the table a couple of metres away from them. Bakura turned and frowned as he caught sight of the boy and the Kaibas - one Kaiba actually, he noted - chatting away like old companions. His frown deepened.

“Well?” Ryou raised an eyebrow, now looking slightly interested. Bakura hastily smoothed out his frown; he didn’t want his twin butting into his business and he certainly didn’t want Ryou to do something extremely stupid like trying to make friends with a guy Bakura was going to later steal from.

Or, maybe he did.

Bakura smiled slowly at Ryou. “I guess you’re right. Though, why should we even bother with them?” he asked dismissively just so Ryou wouldn’t get suspicious.

“Because you couldn’t take your eyes off of Yugi Motou ever since History?” Ryou raised an eyebrow and smiled pleasantly, waiting for Bakura to bite. Which Bakura, though he tried to hold it off, could never resist doing.

Finally, Bakura gave in and asked, annoyed, “Yugi Motou? Which one’s he?” Even though he had an idea on who Ryou was hinting at, Bakura wasn’t entirely sure, and he didn’t want Ryou suspecting his true motives. He didn’t want Ryou involved, period.

“The one you keep spying on? The one with the interesting hair, eyes, and clothes? The one with the necklace?” Ryou listed off cheerfully, taking another sip of his juice.

Was it Bakura’s imagination or did Ryou put a slight emphasis on that last item? Bakura hesitated. “Oh, him,” he tried to say nonchalantly.

“Hm,” was all Ryou had said, and Bakura shifted uneasily. Damn.

“Well, no matter. We’ll just talk to them in our next class.”

Bakura blinked and stared at Ryou, who was calmly finishing off his second sandwich (an egg and ham one this time). “Wait - how did you get his name? And how the hell did you get his schedule?”

Ryou sighed, shaking his head a little. “Bakura, I talk to people. I’m a very nice person. People talk to me because I don’t beat them up or scare them off. You, on the other hand, don’t talk to people. Hence, people don’t talk to you. It’s all very logical, you know.”

“Oh, piss off,” Bakura muttered. “I don’t have time to be nice, especially to those idiots in our classes.”

Ryou shook his head again and rolled his eyes. “I guess since you never learn, I’ll just keep on trying to drum it into you,” he said firmly and hid a smile when Bakura groaned.

“It’s for your own good,” he added, and Bakura glared at his brother.

“I hate you,” Bakura muttered and ran a hand through his long white-grey mane.

“Love you too,” Ryou said cheerfully. Bakura just gave up and took a bite of his apple, sourly thinking that Ryou was really, really annoying, but was also resourceful in the most mundane of ways.

Marik shivered and pulled his brown coat closer. In less than a week since they had arrived in Domino City, Marik had found to his surprise that he wasn’t as quick to adapt to the climate as Ishizu and Odeon. It had irritated him at first because out of the three of them, Marik had looked forward to leaving Egypt the most and it wasn’t fair that once they’d landed, he ended up being the least suited to their change of environment. The irritation felt like an itch under his skin - no matter what he did or tried to do (more clothes, less clothes, walking around outside until his lips were pressed firmly together to keep his teeth from chattering), he still couldn’t adapt like Ishizu or Odeon. Ishizu, who wore her dresses and continued looking just as warm as she ever did back when they were in Egypt. And Odeon - Odeon looked as if he had never left their native country at all, from the way he treated their present home.

He had tried not to resent them for their ease in settling in; he had tried to hold back his unreasonable anger, but that voice still escaped now and then, and if Odeon hadn’t came into his room the other night and offered him a new coat he had just bought, Marik didn’t think he could have controlled himself for any longer. What irritation and resentment he had held, had dissipated. He felt relieved actually, now that his head was clearer and he wasn’t as irrationally angry. There was always a deep fear that if he couldn’t control this voice, this dark, shivery voice, then something terrible would happen. That one day, he would awaken to find himself alone with blood on his hands and familiar bodies that he couldn’t bear to look, to see, lying around in a cruel sprawl. There had been humid nights before, when he’d woken up in cold sweat, heart pounding and skin crawling and he had wiped his hands obsessively on his tiny blanket, fervently chanting that it wasn’t blood. Just sweat, just sweat, just sweat. He hadn’t bothered trying to sleep after that. Instead, he’d lie awake in the dark, counting each thud within his chest, and waited for Odeon to enter and wake him up. He’d known then, as he knew now, that Odeon was the barrier; the last defence.

He shivered again and watched the rain fall with fascination.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Ishizu said softly from somewhere behind him.

“Yeah, I guess,” he murmured back distractedly, but he was already mentally preparing himself. His sister had never started a conversation with him without a purpose, and for a second, he almost wished it was different. But different wasn’t something he wanted, not when he remembered how Ishizu had taken him outside of their prison for just one day…one beautiful day…and he stopped wishing.

“You know, you’ll begin school in a couple of days,” she said gently.

“Yeah, I know.” It was said quietly, but Ishizu heard it. And that should be enough, Marik thought. He knew what he was doing; he knew what their goal was, what they had been born for, and he didn’t need to be reminded. He didn’t, he thought fiercely. It wasn’t like it was easy to forget. But Ishizu just looked at him steadily with a thoughtful pause, as if she was trying to see into the future.

And she probably was, Marik knew. She could predict events with startling ease and certainty, but where the Millennium items were concerned, she was just as blind as the rest of the world. That was a flaw which couldn’t be fixed, no matter how hard she tried, and Marik felt a surge of resentment. Even now, even when they should be free, they weren’t and would never be. Not when prophecies and ancient commands controlled their future with an iron fist.

“It’s important, Marik, that you understand how important all this is. One wrong move, one wrong path, and we won’t be able to -” Ishizu paused. “We won’t be able to finish what was started thousands of years ago,” she said finally.

“I know, sister. I know.” Marik sighed and turned away from the large, window of their apartment; he looked at Ishizu and smiled bitterly. “We’ve known since we were born.”

“Marik…” Ishizu gently stroked his white-blonde hair.

Marik leaned into her touch and sighed. “I’ll do my part. You don’t have to be concerned.”

“I’m not concerned about that, little brother. I’m concerned about you.” Ishizu looked out the window, watching the fragile raindrops patter against the pane of glass, leaving nothing but a trail of wet tear tracks.

Marik said nothing, but he felt soothed by his sister’s soft touch. Still he wondered though; was Ishizu really concerned about him? Or was she concerned that her little brother wouldn’t be able to do his part for the Pharaoh?

Sometimes, when Ishizu smiled her soft smile and ran her hand through his hair tenderly, Marik thought the answer wouldn’t be too bad; other times, he would do just about anything to not know.

Marik guessed that this was one of the former moments and curled closer to Ishizu’s warmth. He’d never really adjusted to the climate.

There was silence, then Seto made his move; the last move of the match. With his queen standing victoriously on Gozaburo’s end and Gozaburo’s pieces all gone, there wasn’t really any ambiguity - Seto had his winning move, Gozaburo was loathed to admit, and the fact that it was a play on his own strategy only infuriated him even more.

At first, Gozaburo had been furiously silent, his eyes relentlessly searching for what went wrong; for how this upstart brat had managed to not only defeat him, but to use his very own strategy against him. Then, Gozaburo was enraged. Humiliated and defeated was one thing, but to be humiliated and defeated by this young pup - by this upstart, weak brat?

Not so weak maybe, Gozaburo thought, and narrowed his eyes. He had underestimated this boy; he won't be foolish enough to do so again.

As he took note of the faint murmur of the crowd gathered during their match, Gozaburo bared his teeth dangerously in a smile. If one could call it as such.

“Well met. I do believe I have another match waiting for me?” he trailed off, smirking.

“That wasn't our deal,” Seto said tightly, glaring back at him. “One of us wins, and you adopt all of us.” Seto could barely grit it out; he tensed.

“True. But I changed my mind.” With that, Gozaburo turned to the other brat - the one with the unsettling eyes. He had a moment of uneasiness, a slight cloud of apprehension before he inwardly snarled and fought it down, burying it so deep Gozaburo could almost forget this unexpected weakness - this fear that had no place inside of him. And for what? For another stray dog?

He had a brief struggle reconciling his image of these orphaned brats - there was no doubt they were above average, if he were to go by the one who defeated him. And yet, Gozaburo couldn’t allow them their victory. Others who were older, more skilled and with a lot more experience had played Gozaburo, only to lose at his hands - he couldn’t be defeated so easily by mere children. Nor - and this was gnawing at Gozaburo like a ravenous wolf - nor was the brief spike of fear worthy of them. No. Only just the boy with the strange eyes. There was something about him, something about those damn eyes, something to do with instincts and intuition Gozaburo had learned to trust a long time ago, and damn it all, he still thought that boy wasn’t worthy of his hesitation.

Or, maybe he was, but there was only one way to find out. Gozaburo had a game to play.

“Well?” he asked again, deliberately ignoring the seething looks the blue-eyed brat was currently aiming at him. When the boy flushed angrily, Gozaburo smiled satisfactorily.

“I’m ready,” another voice spoke out, calm and collected and deeper than it had any right to be.

Gozaburo looked at this - this boy and decided that only time would tell. Time, and the game. He smiled, maybe a tad sadistically as he watched the boy narrow those eyes at him, but it really didn’t matter. Either way, they were his. Win or lose.

The silence in the limo was not abnormal. In fact, there had been countless times when silence was the appropriate exchange, where silence spoke more than any words could. Those times held an almost peaceful atmosphere; the quiet only served as another reminder that they knew each other too well for games and hidden agendas.

Or, so Yami had thought almost wistfully. To say he hadn’t expected this morning to have some effect on Seto would be a lie. But he could honestly admit though that he hadn’t really expected Seto to be so withdrawn and cold after it all took place, and Yami had to wonder if he knew Seto as well as he thought he did. Old insecurities came rushing back to the forefront, forcing Yami to impatiently push them back.

Now wasn’t the time - not if he wanted to bridge what was currently distancing them.

“Seto,” Yami said softly, giving him a sideway glance, but keeping his face forward. There were careful approaches Yami had to take; there were lines of subtlety and bluntness Yami had to move between, but most importantly, Yami had to keep Seto in a stasis between emotional and emotionless. Seto operated impassively on the surface, but Yami knew better; he of all people should know how inside, Seto seethed and resented and raged. And sometimes, in rare, quiet moments, loved and cherished and tried to not clutch at what could disappear.

Yami knew he had to pass finely drawn lines and carefully built defences. He also knew he could do it - he’d already done it before; it was just that this time, there was a variable Yami hadn’t foreseen: Yugi Motou. He was just uncertain - enough to be reluctant to prod answers from Seto, but it had to be done. Or else they were going to live in awkward and tense silences until the situation resolved itself, and Yami didn’t want that. He knew Seto didn’t either, so he tried again.

“Seto.”

This time, there was a barely imperceptible nod. Yami supposed it was better than nothing and made his voice calmer, almost nonchalant, like they were discussing business transactions and the addition of new gaming systems.

“You know, we never did finish that conversation at lunch. And surprisingly,” Yami said wryly, “you kept silent through the rest of our classes. I wonder why.”

When there was no answer, Yami turned towards Seto with a frown. He was about to say something, but at that moment, the limo stopped and Yami’s door opened with Mokuba bouncing in like a tornado of curly hair and bright smiles. Turning towards Mokuba, Yami could only hope that their tension wasn’t as obvious as it appeared, though even if it had been, Mokuba was exceptionally perceptive when he wanted to be.

“You’re fighting,” Mokuba said quietly as soon as the door was shut and the limo had started to move again. “This isn’t - you’re not supposed to fight anymore.”

Yami turned to Seto, wanting words he couldn’t conjure up, no matter how hard he tried. He found himself going silent, mouth closing at the look on Seto’s face. How rare it was, to see Seto Kaiba with his defences stripped and a slightly lost, vulnerable - almost desperate looking - expression on his face; how rare it was, to see Seto as anything other than a stone-faced wall, uncompromising and virtually indestructible despite the erosion of time and weather; and how rare it was, for Yami to be gripped with such a strong, possessive protectiveness for someone who he well knew could survive almost anything.

Again, Yami could find no words to heal this rift. Mokuba… Seto… He could protect them from external hurts, obvious pain that with the right medicine and treatment could easily heal with a minimum period of time. But this was internal, this was partly because of Yami, and he didn’t know what to do.

“We’re not fighting, Mokuba,” Seto said just as quietly as Mokuba had, his voice full of reassurance and determination.

Mokuba snorted, and Yami watched as Seto stifled a brief smile. “Okay, maybe it looked like we were, but it wasn’t a fight.” He paused. “It was more of a…of an issue we hadn’t taken care of. We will soon.”

Seto looked directly at Yami. “Right?”

“Depends on you,” Yami said carefully.

Seto nodded and Yami felt relief surge through him. It wasn’t impossible - they could resolve this, would resolve this, and all Yami had to do now was to play it carefully. Seto was only willing for so long; once a nerve was hit, the walls slammed back up ruthlessly.

“Okay,” Mokuba said uncertainly.

Yami smiled gently. “It’ll be fine,” he said, and then wondered if he should give Mokuba some kind of reassuring contact. There were times when he wondered about what Mokuba thought of their closed-off, non-tactile emotional states. Certainly, a young child needed touch, something that was lacking from both he and Seto; not that Yami or Seto ever brushed off Mokuba when he had needed hugs or a warm ruffle to his wild mane, but neither showed affection easily, and it wasn’t difficult to be concerned on how that would affect Mokuba. Still, he supposed the fact that Mokuba was here, well-adjusted and happy was proof enough.

And then, after Mokuba took several thorough glances at Yami and Seto (back and forth, back and forth), when the tight upset look slowly disappeared and a warmer expression took hold, Yami finally relaxed, unleashing tension he wasn’t aware was there.

He knew Seto was doing the same, because the atmosphere suddenly lightened.

It was a good start, Yami thought. They just needed to follow through with a good ending - the type of ending where they always nearly failed. Nearly, being the key word. Yami always won, and he wasn’t about to lose now.

Gozaburo narrowed his eyes and looked at the boy in front of him with a wariness he’d only ever given to his enemies. The ones he thought were worthy of his attention.

For all of the boy’s - Seto, he recalled silently - clever, quick mind; for all of his arrogance, his ruthlessness, and his thirst for revenge, there were still others like him in the world. Maybe not as clever, and maybe not as ruthless and determined, but they were there. If Gozaburo so wanted to, he could have found a couple of gifted brats and chosen one for his heir. It had been a shame to think that his company, his empire, was wasted because of human fallibilities. Better for his name to live on, on someone else’s terms than for it to fade away to a side note in history. Like Alexander, he was tempted by the lure of immortality.

Although, he never expected to accept it in an almost impulsive move. And because of a skinny, blue-eyed brat as well, Gozaburo almost snorted in disgust. Being reduced to such foolish actions angered him like nothing else could, and perhaps that was why he accepted the challenging words. Perhaps that was why he allowed himself to be goaded into something he never would have agreed to, had it been another day, had it been another brat.

But it was this particular brat, and while Gozaburo grudgingly respected his ruthless mind, his desperate focus on what he most wanted, Gozaburo didn’t give him another thought as soon as the other boy had sat down across from him. This was the one with the strange eyes - red, blood, crimson - and spiked hair of blonde and purple and possible brown, but that wasn’t what held Gozaburo’s attention. It wasn’t the strangeness of the colouring of his eyes or his hair that had Gozaburo wired and tense. No, it was the look of those eyes.

Calm, serene.

Old.

If Gozaburo had been a suspicious man, he would have shivered. If he had had any religious inclination, he would have called upon old rituals and ancient lore. But he wasn’t and he didn’t - thus he glared at the boy and felt his fingers itch to move his knights.

“Well?”

The boy stared back at him and gave a firm nod. Then, with fingers gently caressing his queen and king, he reached for one of his pawns.

“Let’s begin.”

Calm.

Serene.

Old.

Gozaburo pushed away the uneasiness hovering at the back of his mind and prepared for his turn.