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becoming who we are

Summary:

The night before Seto Kaiba’s first day of public high school

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The mansion’s silence had enveloped Seto since the very first time he crossed its threshold, a stark contrast to the cacophony of the orphanage he'd left behind. But nothing could have prepared him for its current desolation.

His appearance then was unassuming, the very image of an orphan—yet his eyes, clear and unmarked by life's harsh lessons, held no trace of the heavy past he shouldered, as if the mere act of coming into contact with that new world had washed away the stains, as if he had been remade into a new boy once again. Only his wrists did. 


In a long-sleeved shirt, he had offered a strained smile to his younger brother, a facade of ease that the little boy clung to for comfort.
Years had passed—five, or was it six?—since then.


Now the house ceased to be Gozaburo's and yet Seto could not accept it truly became his, he was not even sure where the line could be drawn between them after so long.
It loomed as simply the Kaiba family's mansion. It was easier to call it that. To pretend like that window was still intact.


Time here had always moved differently, as if Seto had been dropped onto an alien planet governed by inscrutable laws.


Life within these walls demanded conformity, to a certain set of rules at least, even though Seto had an idea that it was not the same kind of conformity generally expected from someone his age, sculpting him into a mold of the ideal heir, never allowing a glimpse beyond its towering gates.
Not like Seto wanted to look beyond, not like Seto knew there was anything beyond. Not like “Seto” called himself that anymore. Or ever desired to.


Seto lived a life that belied his age, his boyish frame burdened with the gravity of a seasoned businessman. He navigated a world where his every action mirrored that of an elder, yet he understood little of life's deeper truths.
His real form was that of a newborn, autonomy an illusion, his spirit curbed as though he remained shackled to infancy.

Emerging from this figurative, and literal imprisonment - he had possessed no more liberties than a prisoner, who at least retained a right not to be tortured - Seto didn't revel in newfound freedom; instead, he seemed lost, unlearning the basic instincts of existence. Movement, conversation, the state of being in itself—these became foreign concepts without the directive force of his guardian's presence.
He became a living paradox, a prisoner within himself now that the cell had been unlocked, the Bastille's shadow ever-present. Bereft of even a jailer's meager offerings of bread and water, he oddly yearned for the oppressive echo of authority—a director's baton, a clink of the chains. In this new solitude, the leading light, too, had fled, leaving Seto alone with the ghosts. 


Over the span of those formative years, his physique had undergone its own quiet rebellion, reshaping itself in ways both mysterious and disconcerting to him.

His flesh had been nothing more than a canvas for anguish, absorbing the sharp lessons of life with each punishing blow. It seemed to exist solely as an extension of his mind—a vessel for cerebral command, yet so often the very source of his torment.
His frame cried out for the basic reprieves of rest, slumber, and nourishment and he loathed it for that. 

He harbored a secret yearning to shed this burdensome shell, to be unshackled from the relentless demands of his corporeal being. Such liberation, he mused, would surely please Gozaburo.


Perhaps the size of a body is a signifier of power, with men hoping to acquire such strength. Those towering figures around him seemed to grasp authority from their high statures and wide frames, casting a lengthy shadow over his relatively smaller frame.

 “As a boy”, Seto always spoke as if he was no longer one, he had clung to the hope that his body held a potential for grace, but now, it betrayed him, remaining amorphous and elusive in definition. Caught between the realms of child and adolescent, he felt a growth unfulfilled, as though the very passage of time within the mansion's walls had not only ensnared his spirit but also stunted his physical form.


This thought, the notion of being halted in maturity, was anathema to his mind, yet it was a truth he could not escape, a physical testament to the stillness of time in a world that was all but still.


Time unfurled with a swiftness that eluded Seto's grasp, sweeping him into its relentless rhythm. He felt himself adrift, a solitary voyager cradled in a skiff amidst a raging storm, the sun's fiery eye above him charring his exposed skin.


He had gotten rid of his former teachers. His house felt abandoned and dark, like a kingdom missing its center of gravity where his life used to revolve. Was he looking for something to fill the void in his life or was it pure loneliness that drove him towards enrolling in high school?


Would this new sphere shield him from the persistent feeling of blood on his hands?
The transition loomed near, a threshold he was poised to cross. He was a repository of vast knowledge, yet this uncharted territory remained a mystery. The things he should have known were the very ones that had always been the most mysterious. He was not able to see the irony in that. 

In the uniformity of school attire, he would blend in, camouflaged among the unsuspecting throng, harboring a silent disdain for those on the periphery of his world—a disdain that had become as familiar to him as his own shadow, rendering all things lackluster.


Yet, he anticipated the spectacle with a certain detached amusement. He'd claim a seat at the classroom's rear, become the silent observer. He'd study the contour of each peer's face, the cadence of their speech, perhaps to relearn the forgotten art of being human.
Was it truly forgotten? Had he ever begun to master it? It might prove beneficial, he conceded. This is the only way Seto would allow himself to understand this need.


It might prove beneficial to understand the youth, who would now be the consumers of his enterprise, no longer the heralds of demise but the harbingers of a future he was yet to claim.


Would going back to school erase the pain of what had happened as effectively as entering the mansion had wiped away his life of distress, deceit and frailty? Would it make him forget, like Gozaburo had accomplished when he made him stop longing for his birth parents? Was that the fear that scared him most —that he'd forget how it felt when suffering scorched within and anger did too, alongside a craving for love, while Gozaburo still held sway over the mansion?

Would it make him forget, along with the days he had been bound to that chair, all the games - chess and the mental battles - and all those fleeting moments of tenderness that he would reject so forcefully so that, comforted by the fact his heir was not becoming soft, he would continue giving them when he was good? 


He wished desperately to remember; he admonished himself for this. He found more comfort in the blood on his hands than the thought of becoming nothing.
If he was no longer his son or heir, then who was he? He hoped “good at games” was a decent answer, but he wasn’t sure.
Now that he’d killed him, did it change anything? After all, they still shared the same name.


Seto's heart was heavy as he walked towards his room, the night preceding his first school day, the door closing softly behind him. He didn't need to see himself in the mirror to know that his face was a mess, his emotions raw and bleeding. He never cried, he did not cry now, but his face possessed the unique talent of always rendering him naked.

“Those sentimental emotions control you”, he had often heard him say.


Gozaburo's suicide had been sudden, leaving him reeling and feeling like he was drowning in the sorrow that he wouldn't allow himself to feel, he had hoped for days that the emptiness would soon be replaced by pride but it didn't yet. He couldn't feel neither sorrow or pride and he was desperate to feel anything at all.


But there was something else too - a feeling of dread, heavy as lead, settled in the pit of his stomach. Gozaburo was gone, but his presence lingered on. Seto knew that soon, any traces of the man who had raised him would be purged from the house. The man who had hurt him so much and loved him so cruelly. Seto hoped he had loved him in his own, cruel way, the only way he was able to to. Seto hoped that was why he did so cruelly, because he was incapable of loving any other way. Someone that dies to teach you something must love you. Would anyone else ever be cruel enough to love him that way? 
With that erasure came the fear that Seto would have nothing to take its place.


As Seto undressed in front of the mirror, his fingers trembled and his breath hitched. It wasn't until he caught sight of his own reflection that he truly understood the depths of his fear. The scars on his body told a story that he was terrified to lose like he had lost that of his earliest days - each one a mark of punishment, each one a reminder of the pain he had endured at his "father's" hand. He barely registered the burning sensation in his cobalt eyes as he tenderly caressed every inch of his own scarred flesh, remembering longingly each punishment, especially the first one. That first time had given him a release of sorts, a way to shed the need to harm himself through cutting, freed him of the need to wear long sleeves.


Now that man was gone, Seto felt as if he had nothing to strive for. It had been the dream of all these years to end the cruel legacy of the company, but even that seemed empty now. He was not proud. He was not a young David filled with courage and righteousness. He knew he was still only an orphan who did whatever it took to get by. Gozaburo appreciated that—the ability to stretch himself as far as possible without breaking. Seto had taken advantage of this same quality in the takeover; he'd cheated because he needed to, betrayed his brother in the process.

Unchecked and unpunished for his perceived shortcomings, he felt a growing void. His fingers pressed into the wound, searching desperately for the familiar sting of pain - but it wasn't enough. He needed more. He longed for bright new scars. Usually when he did wrong he was made to pay. This felt unnatural. 

Something to fill the gaping chasm that Gozaburo had left behind. Desperately, he clawed at his skin, an attempt to reopen the old ones, needing something to make him feel alive.


The memory of his first punishment filled his mind. He remembered the bile in his throat, the sting of the cane on his back, the hot tears rolling down his cheeks. He could still feel the chilly night air bathing his bare body as he stood in the middle of the room and a gust of wind blew from the window; a unique combination of humiliation and excitement surged through him. He heard the crack of the cane connecting with flesh, rustling leaves shifting outside, and Gozaburo's voice scolding him in reprimand. It all seemed so real, that Seto found himself whispering,"Did it hurt like this when you fell?", he was not sure if he was referring to the pain he felt then or to the one he was feeling now.


Seto leaned in, pressing his thumb against the place where a bright, still bright, red welt used to be on his chest from his last punishment. He could still recall the taste of saltiness, fear and pain on his tongue, and the warmth of it infiltrating his skin. As he ran his finger along the length of the scar, he wished for the days when somebody had hurt him like that again and it was such devastating knowledge to know that no one else but him could gift him those experiences.


He knelt down, his forehead pressing against the cold glass of the mirror. He could smell his own perspiration combined with the heavy scent of the plants in the garden outside.


Seto stared at the small razor in his hand. He took a deep breath before pressing it against his shoulder, the first corner of his skin that Gozaburo touched with his own hands. A shiver ran down his spine as he recalled the feeling of those strong arms wrapping around him when he first entered the mansion. Seto's grip tightened on the razor, his teeth gritted together in determination.

With a swift motion, he dragged the blade across his skin, not caring about the hot sting that followed. The pain is cathartic. Blood dripped down his arm, painting a trail of crimson, as red as the man’s favorite suit, on the floor beneath him.

He could almost hear the echoes of Gozaburo's cruel laughter and feel the sting of Daimon's words as he cut deeper into his flesh.

The room felt close, suffocating him with memories, so he moved to the bathroom, running the razor across his thighs and stomach, leaving behind one more trail of red on the white porcelain of the sink. He tilted his head back and gasped as the pain became too much to bear, but he wouldn’t stop. Not yet. He could take some more, this is what he had been telling himself, and what he had been told for a lustre. 


In the mirror, he watched his reflection - haunted eyes staring back at him, messy hair framing an ashen face. His breath came out in pants as he continued slicing. He moved to his chest, wondering if he'll ever forget how it felt to be bound to that chair. With another shaky breath, he cut into his chest this time, feeling the hot sting seep through him as tears blurred his vision.


He dropped the razor with a clatter, letting out a harsh, manic laugh that echoed in the empty room. He ran a hand through his hair, disgusted with himself.


Slowly, he turned on the faucet and washed away the blood from his body, wincing at the burn of cold water against his raw wounds.
Seto splashed his face with water. He stared at himself in the mirror, wondering how much more damage he could take before breaking completely, would it have pleased Gozaburo to hear that the answer was “still quite a lot”? 


The cool tile of the bathroom floor pressed against Seto's bare skin as he sat there, his gaze distant as he stared off into nothingness. His heart raced, but not from effort, pain or fear. It raced with a strange mixture of emotions - relief, loss, and loneliness. The fresh wounds he had just inflicted on his own body were finally starting to stop bleeding, leaving behind only smears on the white porcelain sink and dribbles on the cold tiles beneath him. This was a much lonelier pain than the one he had been raised on. 

He could feel the adrenaline surging through his veins, making him shake slightly as if he were cold. But he wasn't. Not really.

He kept his eyes on the scarlet marks, observing as they lightened while he ran the faucet. It felt so useless; anyone would be able to tell something was wrong with him tomorrow even if they wouldn't dare to speak their mind.

He remembers when being found out for hurting himself caused his aunt to hand him over to some other family, like she had unexpectedly discovered a defective toy.

Seto doesn't know if Gozaburo spotted his cuts when he first adopted him or if he merely perceived them as bruises from fighting children at the orphanage. He never said, which was strange. He would have never missed the occasion to point out a defect in his heir. Maybe he did not think of it as a defect. 


He couldn't help but wonder if anyone would ever find out about this; if Mokuba would know. He was trying to be a good brother to him after not seeing him for more than minutes for years, after betraying him, and for what? He wasn't sure now, not as much as he used to be.

Earlier that day he brought him to a Capsule Monsters tournament, watched him cheat and belittle his opponents. He still told him he was proud. He was the first to believe cheating was sometimes necessary. This is how he got there. This is how he got the scars, both kinds. 


Seto scrubbed at the sink, scouring it with an old rag until every last speck of blood was gone. Taking a deep breath he stood up, legs trembling and threatening to collapse beneath him until he found his footing again. He refused to surrender; he had to stay steadfast this time. He had to be strong as always.


As he walked back to the bed, he felt a chill due to the absence of the collar that usually squeezed his neck. He got into bed and felt the scratchy material of the sheets irritating his skin where he had cut himself earlier. But it didn't change anything without Gozaburo.
Although he had the luxury of being able to sleep whenever he desired, he still leaned towards working instead, sleep was its own hell. He did not care he had a comfortable room now that the mansion was his. 


As the night wore on, he tossed and turned, unable to find any sort of comfort or rest. His thoughts kept going back to the man who had controlled him, who had made him feel something other than hollow inside. He missed the way Gozaburo's voice would echo in his mind even when he wasn't speaking, but now in it's place he could only hear the sound of shattering glass. Depriving himself of sleep would be comforting. He could substitute that voice with his very own. 

Missing that passionate fury, the one that had kept him going, that had him yearning for a tomorrow where he could prove himself and gain revenge. He had imagined Gozaburo's expression once his plans reached fruition and imagined he would tell him he had been right to take him in. Seto would have delighted in making Gozaburo suffer before finally earning the admiration and respect he had sought when initiating the chess game.


Seto couldn't help but ponder why the man had chosen death over acknowledging him. He'd wished he could be accepted, if not as a son, then at least for the warrior he had crafted himself into. Was it because Seto denied being a weapon? He wanted to demonstrate that games were as much conflict as real war, simply more dignified.


Hadn't it all been a game what they were playing? What they had been playing for so long? His first true rival, his first true opponent. He had always believed rivalry was the only bond you could trust. Why did it betray him too?


Was the idea of losing so unbearable that the abyss was better, or was it truly such a damning thing that no other choice was possible?

But for Seto, winning had been just as unbearable. 


The first fingers of dawn crept through the vermilion curtain, casting their pale light across Seto's face. He stirred, blinking his bleary eyes open after only a few scant hours of sleep. He knew he should feel excited for the day ahead, but instead, an overwhelming sense of lethargy weighed his limbs down.

Seto winced as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, the dull ache from yesterday's wounds making themselves known. It almost felt like he had been brought back to the weeks that preceded these events, which had been his aim when wounding his own flesh. He hoped it could work as a time capsule. Maybe he could have prevented it from happening. No, he was not supposed to think that way.


This wasn't how he had imagined starting his day, but there was work waiting for him after class and no time to waste. With a sigh, he decided against showering or grooming himself, hoping that the tasks ahead would be quick so he could return working.


"Ugh," he grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck before pulling open the closet door. The blue uniform hung there, crisp and new, starkly contrasting with the white one he used to wear at home. As he changed into the unfamiliar fabric, a tiny spark of excitement flickered within him, like the embers of a dying fire. He couldn't help but wonder what the world outside would be like, having had little chance to experience it before now.

Seto arrived at his destination, the whispers of his peers following him like a shadow. He tried to ignore them as he eased into his seat, wincing once more at the pain that radiated from his wounds.


"Will this ever stop hurting?" he thought, rubbing the tender spot discreetly. His mind wandered to the quiet murmurs surrounding him, the word "KaibaCorp" being repeated like a mantra. He couldn't help but question if "heir" was the right term to describe his position.


"Hey, you're Seto, right? The KaibaCorp heir?" a classmate asked, leaning over to get a better look at him. Seto gave a curt nod, attempting to suppress the annoyance that bubbled beneath the surface.


Seto didn't agree with his classmate, that he was an heir of anything. He felt like a patricidal instead.


The bell rang, drowning out the whispers and signaling the beginning of a new day. As Seto prepared himself for class, he clung to the glimmer of hope that by the end of the school day the wounds would stop stinging, so he could work in peace.


Seto tensed up as the teacher's gaze shifted to him. His voice was cold and hard when he spoke, like a blade of ice slicing through the silence. Like shattering glass."My name," he spat out, "is Kaiba Seto."