Yu-Gi-Oh! Fan Fiction ❯ Web of Fate ❯ these unbroken bonds ( Chapter 7 )

Disclaimer: Same as previous. YuGiOh doesn't belong to me; I'm just borrowing the characters for fan-ish purposes. No profit is made and blah, blah, blah. I do this for fun.

 

A/N: This chapter is pretty much about Seto and Yami. For some plot advancement, tune in for the next chapter, wherein Bakura meets someone new, Yugi has a talk with Joey, and there's some Seto/Yami-ness.

 

However, I'm not sure when the next chapter will be done. Semester will be starting soon and on top of that, I have a report to write. So. This is my long-winded way of saying I'll be writing slowly.

 

Thanks to Yuugi-chan and Moerae for beta-ing and also to everyone who stuck by this fic despite my sporadic updates.

 

 

Completed: 10.02.2006

 

 

 

these unbroken bonds

 

 

Yami sometimes wondered how silence could be so loud. It was an oxymoron technically, and yet, silence had always been louder than any background noise Yami had ever encountered. It droned relentlessly, amplifying fears one would never have thought they had had. It sensitised every thought, every emotion — it reminded Yami of the orphanage, back before Mokuba had stared at him curiously one day and smiled.

 

Yami didn't like silence. He'd had too much of it already when he was young and wildly different from the other children. He'd had enough of it now too, but for entirely different reasons.

 

Seto, despite his words back in the limo, had walked straight towards his study. The lines of his shoulders had tightened — almost as if he were preparing for battle — as soon as they had entered the mansion. Yami had frowned and would have almost called for him had Mokuba not tugged at his arm just then.

 

“Yami, you'll fix this, right?” Mokuba had bit his lip and looked trustingly up at him. “You always fix Seto.”

 

“Mokuba…” Yami had trailed off. “I can't fix everything. I'm not… I'm not...” He'd fought for the words, looking frustrated.

 

“I know, I know. That's okay, Yami. It's not just you,” Mokuba had said. “Seto has to fix things too. The problem is making him do it.”

 

And Yami had to smile. Such apt words, from such a small being. With a gentle laugh, Yami had brushed Mokuba's hair away from his eyes. “You're pretty smart.”

 

“Yeah,” Mokuba had said, shrugging and smiling slyly, “I have to be to keep you guys in line.”

 

Then, with a more serious look on his face, Mokuba had asked, “It's not that bad, is it?”

 

“No. The answer will always be no, no matter what.” Yami gently tugged at Mokuba's mane. “I promise.”

 

Mokuba had nodded and hugged him tightly. “You don't have to promise, I believe you anyway. Just go make sure Seto does as well.”

 

And then, Yami had gone upstairs to Seto's study. He hadn't bothered knocking; he knew Seto was already aware of his presence, though he didn't think Seto would do anything about it despite his earlier pledge. Yami could feel his temper slip and the steady flow of anger thrumming through him, his control only holding on by a thin thread. There was only one question he wanted to ask, and Seto was making it almost impossible for him to get an answer.

 

Why?

 

Why Seto suddenly withdrew himself, shutting himself away as if Yami was suddenly unworthy of his attention, his time — as if Yami was just like everybody else. From the first moment they had met, Seto had never treated him as anything less than an equal. He had never treated Yami as anything less than a fascinating adversary, a worthy opponent — his partner and accomplice in their games of pretences and lies. This abrupt change had to have been about Yugi — and the question was still why?

 

Yami wanted his answer, and he wanted it now. He wasn't going to settle for silence anymore.

 

“Seto,” he said quietly, stepping in front of Seto's desk. Yami looked down at Seto's bowed head, pretending he didn't see the way Seto tensed and forcibly unclenched his fist, and waited. There was a good chance Seto wouldn't acknowledge him, but that didn't matter. He wasn't going to give up until he settled their differences — until Seto finally saw him again.

 

“Yami,” Seto said, voice low. He didn't look up.

 

“We need to talk.”

 

Seto looked up and for a second, his lips curled. Yami could feel himself smiling too at the overly dramatic words, but then it passed, and the tension overtook the unexpected humorous turn.

 

“Do we really need to do this?” Seto turned away again. “I think we both know where we stand.”

 

“Do we?” Yami asked while struggling to contain his anger; he didn't succeed. “Or were you just lying to Mokuba?”

 

Seto turned towards Yami angrily and opened his mouth to speak — most probably yell — but he didn't. Yami stared straight at Seto unwaveringly, almost daring Seto to fight back, to argue, to get this out of their system so everything would be back to the way it used to be; to the way Yami wanted everything to be.

 

Watching Seto inwardly struggle with anger and pain, Yami was nearly tempted to take a step back and give Seto his space. Nearly — if he hadn't been so certain that everything had to be brought out in the open; that they somehow needed this.

 

Yami waited. He waited for Seto to speak because Seto needed to make the first move, say the first word; and because Yami needed him to.

 

“You wanted to find your family — now you have,” Seto nearly spat out the words. His breathing deepened and his eyes flashed, but all Yami could see and hear was the pain.

 

This was his answer. This was the reason — there could be nothing else that would make Seto act the way he did. He would — and always — want to leave first, because he wouldn't tolerate being left behind.

 

Why won't he believe it? Why does he still doubt me? After everything…

 

But, no. He wouldn't be Seto if he didn't have doubts and pain and a shattering need to rip apart his weaknesses. It wasn't as if Yami didn't have his own insecurities as well; far be it for him to judge what he himself had done countless times before. It was the price of their past, the sacrifice they had made when they went with Gozaburo. Wouldn't Gozaburo be laughing in hell, to see his success thus far?

 

Yami tore that thought apart and denied every implication. There was no success because they were still here; still together. Seto hadn't turned away completely, and Yami was still fighting — would keep on fighting, just as Seto could never turn away from him completely. That too, was a price of their past.

 

“I searched for my family, because I needed to know. I searched for them, because I wanted to know why. You and Mokuba already knew why — both of you already knew how it came to be, how you ended up in an orphanage — but I never knew. No records, Seto. I had no records, no birth certificate, nothing.” Unwaveringly calm, except for the tightness in his throat, Yami continued, “I don't know who I am — was. Don't know where I come from, who my parents were, why I was left there. Why nobody wanted me.”

 

Staring at Seto, he said more softly, “I just want answers, that's all. I already know who I am, I already have a family.”

 

There was no sound other than the cadence of their breaths, almost synchronised, almost in phase, and Yami fought to keep still, to let Seto make his move.

 

“I should know this,” Seto said slowly, testing the words. “You wouldn't—”

 

And Yami smiled. In relief or in affection, he wasn't certain; it was possibly both. He finished Seto's sentence firmly. “Because I don't want to.”

 

“Because you don't want to,” Seto repeated, relaxing slightly. “Today caught me off guard. I didn't think—” he closed his mouth, and looked uncomfortably at him.

 

But Yami just snorted in amusement. “No, I didn't think so either. I knew the chances of finding anything were small, but I just had to try.”

 

Seto nodded, and then twisted his lips wryly. “Who would have thought the answers to all your questions would just turn up, no private investigators necessary.”

 

“Fate,” Yami said almost teasingly, and Seto narrowed his eyes.

 

“Don't start,” he warned. “You know I hate that pre-destined crap.”

 

Yami snorted and smirked. “Blah, blah, blah.”

 

“I hate that too,” Seto growled, but his lips were twitching, and the tension had abated, leaving behind something softer.

 

Yami walked towards him and then tugged Seto's head down, until they were eye to eye. He curved a palm along Seto's chin, then neck; he pressed forward, sighing at the warmth of Seto's body, relaxing into the heat before he tilted his head forward, just the barest touch of Seto's lips and the faintest warmth of Seto's breath, and his heart pounded, heat and lust building when Seto instinctively reached for him.

 

 

* * * *

 

 

His eyes were blurry, and he could feel the weight of the chains grow heavier and heavier with every minute, every second. His body was exhausted, his mind foggy and weighed down by the need for rest. For sleep. But the textbooks sitting in front of him, awaiting him, told him defiantly that in no uncertain terms could he stop. Rest, sleep, rest — they weren't for him.

 

They weren't for the worthy, or so Gozaburo had said, but then, if it was true, then why wasn't Yami in here with him? Why did Gozaburo leave Yami out of his tests?

 

Because Yami was favoured.

 

Because Yami was worthy.

 

Because Yami was better.

 

At that, Seto clenched his fist so hard, his pen nearly snapped in two. No, no, no! he raged. Better — no, that wasn't true; he couldn't be. Seto wasn't inferior, he couldn't be, but if he wasn't, then why was he here? Why?

 

His head hurt, pounding the back of his skull to the beat of his heart; it had started mildly enough — a tightness to his temple, an ache around his forehead — but then it had deepened until it took most of Seto's concentration to ignore it. Concentration Seto had needed elsewhere.

 

He was so tired. His eyes felt itchy, dry, and his neck hurt from the angle it had stayed in for countless hours, always accompanied by the chime of the old, polished grandfather clock that sat near the door like a disapproving guardian. It probably was, Seto thought. He wouldn't put it past Gozaburo to add in hidden cameras in the guise of checking Seto's progress; it would explain the irrational feeling he kept having of being watched and judged, like he was some animal in cage, snarling at his jailers.

 

Fighting off exhaustion and fatigue, Seto could only clench at the textbook in front of him more tightly. How long before his body's weaknesses overrode the force of his will? How long before his mind succumbed to exhaustion? Seto didn't know, but he was determined to keep going for as long as he could. With enough control, with enough focus...surely...

 

His vision blurred, the words in front of him became nothing but a blob of smeared black ink. He could feel his mind shutting down, lost in a chaos of numbing tiredness and fear — fear, Seto would never admit; could never admit.

 

He flinched at the creak of the door and held himself still when footsteps padded towards him. Immediately, his eyes refocused and adrenaline rushed through his blood, drumming into his heart until all he could hear was the thudding beat of his chest, until all he could feel was the burning weight of Gozaburo's gaze.

 

“You were sleeping,” Gozaburo said brusquely. Then, Seto heard the stretch of something leathery and long.

 

“I wasn't.” His heart thumped, his head hurt, and his mouth was dry. He could barely speak, but he fought for composure.

 

“Really,” Gozaburo started mockingly, “a failure and now a liar too. Did you think I couldn't tell? That I couldn't see?”

 

Gozaburo grabbed a handful of Seto's hair and pulled his head back, wrenching it down until Seto was staring up at him, struggling to keep his face expressionless.

 

“What makes you think you deserve to be my heir? What makes you think you're worthy?” Gozaburo continued, anger dissolving into something cold and cruel.

 

“You didn't even pass this test I gave you,” he snorted, and then he narrowed his eyes. “Didn't even last the night.”

 

“I would have,” Seto said coldly, ignoring Gozaburo's tight grip, “if you hadn't interrupted my studying.”

 

For a moment, Seto stared back at Gozaburo, a challenging tilt to his chin. Then, he flinched as the crack of whip reverberated through the room.

 

“I interrupted nothing,” Gozaburo said slowly, emphasising the last word as he pushed Seto's head forward this time and clamped his hand roughly down onto his neck.

 

Seto struggled, pain and fear cascading, adrenaline surging, but he remained imprisoned, caged, weak.

 

Gozaburo lifted his arm and bore down hard.

 

 

* * * *

 

 

 

I should know this...

 

Seto lay awake, watching each breath Yami took in his sleep. He had tried to sleep earlier, but found that he was restless and his mind unwilling to relax. Curling around Yami — comfortable as it was — hadn't helped this time. Maybe it was because this time, Yami was part of the reason why he couldn't relax, why he couldn't let go of this cold sensation of loss.

 

It was both frustrating and commonplace to have his mind at odds with his heart. Rationally and logically, what Yami had said earlier made sense; curiosity and the need to find one's blood family were to be expected for an orphan who knew nothing of his past. Irrationally and illogically, however, Seto was unwilling to let go and let Yami find out what he could about his family. He just couldn't. No matter what words Yami spoke or what action Yami took, Seto couldn't shake off the idea that he was going to lose Yami one way or the other. It was a certainty he felt deep in his soul, in his heart, and despite his utter disbelief in fate or destiny, he couldn't dispel it.

 

He couldn't, not when part of him believed it so much. And why would he believe it anyway? Why the hell was he so certain about losing Yami, when all signs pointed to the contrary?

 

He could say it was just his foolish, weak self allowing his insecurities and fears to take over. What he couldn't say for certain, was that it would never, ever come true.

 

Because he could allow himself his fears and insecurities and weaknesses; he could allow himself all that and more, but he couldn't allow himself to believe entirely in something he knew wasn't true.

 

Maybe he could make himself believe it. Maybe if he could convince himself hard enough, then it would be all right.

 

I should know this, he thought almost fervently, repeating those earlier words like a promise, and then closed his eyes, taking a shuddering breath. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes and released it, his gaze immediately turning towards Yami's peaceful, sleeping face, and he fought off the urge to burrow himself into that warmth. Gently, he shifted sideways and reached for the thin sheet covering. He pulled it down until Yami's upper body was bared.

 

Yami shivered slightly, and Seto stilled, waiting for either consciousness or further sleep. When Yami didn't move, Seto softly traced golden skin; cheek and jaw first, and then the neck. Soft and vulnerable. Firm, but gentle. And Yami, in his sleep, trusted Seto deeply enough to shift into his touch, moving until palm nearly encompassed the whole neck.

 

Trust.

 

Seto shivered and took his hand away. He shook his head, and then turned his gaze back onto Yami. Almost as if he was drawn, his eyes turned to the locket hanging around Yami's neck like it had always been there. It was the exact replica, to the finest detail, of the one hanging around his and Mokuba's necks.

 

He stared at it for a second, and then he involuntarily reached to trace the pink, jagged lines etched along Yami's arm. From wrist to elbow they ran thickly, in a crisscross engraved by a silver dagger years ago.

 

Dagger for the punished, blood awash in sins, Gozaburo had said.

 

Seto kept tracing the scars, as if to memorise the soft and lumpy feel of the lines, as if to convince himself that they would remain like this: scarred and damaged, but eternal and unbroken.

 

 

* * * *

 

 

Seto remained silent as his visitor entered his room. He was lying facedown, with his back fully bandaged and his arms hanging listlessly by his side. The throbbing, raw pain which had blasted him as soon as he had regained consciousness had been willed into submission for the moment, like background noise being ignored until it grew too loud.

 

“Seto...”

 

He heard a sharp inhalation from his left and knew that Yami would be shocked.

 

“Did he do this to you?” Yami sounded angry. Good, Seto thought.

 

“Seto?” Now he sounded confused.

 

Seto almost smiled, except he wasn't capable of feeling anything other than listless emptiness and cold hate. Even the dull pain was nothing more than an empty feeling.

 

He remained silent. What was there to say? What could he say?

 

And it was none of Yami's business anyway.

 

“Seto... Why are you doing this? Why won't you say something?” Was that a plea? It sounded like a plea, it felt like a plea, but Yami didn't plead. Yami had never pleaded with anyone before and Seto didn't really believe he would start now.

 

“Why... Seto...”

 

He could hear Yami's silent hurt, although he didn't know how. He could feel that small bit of rejection being taken and absorbed and tested, and then accepted, like drinking something bitter and sour. He didn't care. He liked it just the way it was — no emotion, no pain. Detached.

 

“You've never ignored me before.” Low, dark. Pained.

 

For a moment, Seto felt the vaguest sense of unease, maybe even regret, but he brushed it aside. What Yami felt was none of his business, just as what he'd felt, what he'd been through, was none of Yami's. They were separate and divided. It had been naïve of them to have thought otherwise.

 

Seto waited for more words, but hoped for none. He almost thought Yami was going to leave, to turn away and never glance back, except Yami didn't seem to be following the script; didn't seem to hear Seto's silence.

 

“You never ignored me before — you did many things, said many things, good and bad, but you've never ignored me before. Others did, but you didn't.” Seto heard a rustle and then footsteps, coming closer and closer.

 

“The other kids... they looked at me and they saw a demon. A red-eyed demon. No parents they knew of, no past; just mysteriously left there like unwanted garbage. Even the social workers were afraid of me. Not obviously and not intentionally, but I knew they hadn't wanted me there. Didn't want me there. They never looked at me; over my shoulder, above my head... but they never looked at me.”

 

There was a moment where Seto didn't hear anything else no matter how hard he strained his ears, but then there were more footsteps. They continued on until they stopped just on Seto's right, close enough for Yami to touch. He felt a subtle shift in the air, a whisper in the gentle air currents that spoke of movement, and then he felt a tender, soft touch on his back, just barely there.

 

“I hated it.” Low, dark, but there wasn't any hint of pain in there.

 

Silence. But Yami kept tracing his bandages carefully and gently, and Seto fought to hold onto his detachment.

 

“Does it hurt?” It was a whisper in the silence and as intimate as Yami's touch.

 

Seto wanted to say no, because it was the truth: Yami's hands felt more like comfort than pain. He instead said, “Yes.”

 

Yami's touch faltered, and Seto finally turned his head towards him, looking at him straight in the eye.

 

“But I don't want you to stop.”