Chapter Text
“Well, isn’t this precious.”
Seto’s body jerked into terrified, reflexive wakefulness at the sound of the voice. His father was here. He’d been asleep. Had he drifted off at his desk? He ducked his head, cringing in anticipation of the crop. But no – it didn’t fall. He was in bed. He was in bed, and his father had woken him. That wasn’t good. The best case scenario was that he’d have to face punishment for oversleeping. The worst case…
“Relax, Seto.” Gozaburo put a weighty hand on one of Seto’s feet, a hint of a chuckle in his voice as he watched his eyes dart up to his face in panic. “You’re not being punished. You don’t have any work to do at the moment, other than resting – although I didn’t expect to find you resting in quite such a position.”
Seto struggled to understand what he meant, and then he understood all at once. He was leaning back against the bed, and Jounouchi’s arm was still curled close around him. Jounouchi’s head had slid down in his sleep, and now it rested heavy and warm against his shoulder. There was a small spot of drool on Seto’s skin beneath his lips, and Seto could feel the gossamer tickle of strands of Jounouchi’s hair clinging like cobwebs to the side of his face.
Seto wrenched away from him immediately, his heart pounding. Jounouchi’s head fell forward and he jolted awake. His eyes blinked for a moment dazedly, and then narrowed as he noticed Gozaburo standing at the end of the bed. Without hesitation, he shoved himself forward onto his knees on the mattress, reaching across to grab the bed rail in a way that left his arm stretched protectively in front of Seto.
“What are you doing here?” Jounouchi growled.
“My son was stabbed, Jounouchi. I’m sure you remember. I’m here to check on him.”
“He’s fine.” Jounouchi’s glare was a pure, deathly spear of hate. “No thanks to you.”
“It seems that you’ve grown quite close,” Gozaburo said, co*cking his head to the side and regarding Jounouchi with something between curiosity and distaste. “Strange: the last time I remember you having to touch him so intimately, you were begging me to let you stop.” Jounouchi made a spluttering, outraged noise of disgust. Gozaburo’s gaze slid over to Seto, trapped against the corner of the bed. “What about it, boy? Are you trying to seduce your little rescuer? Did his fingers inside you feel that much better than anything else you’ve had?”
Seto swallowed hard. Jounouchi looked about ready to leap off the bed at Gozaburo and try to tear his throat out with his teeth, and Gozaburo’s eyes were like the sharp edge of a precipice, waiting and hungry for a breeze that would push them over the edge and into darkness. This was already getting out of control. There was something off about Gozaburo’s expression, something he didn’t think he’d ever seen before. Seto was used to Gozaburo looking at him like he was an object – a blueprint, a weapon, an expensive but fiddly watch forever needing inconvenient repairs – but now he was being regarded like a depletable resource in danger of running out. He felt like a remote oil well, reflected in his father’s black eyes. There was avarice there, and ownership, but calculating fear as well. More than anything else, that hint of fear made the hair stand up on the back of Seto’s neck. This was dangerous.
“Please, sir,” he said. He struggled to speak around the pain in his body, much greater now that the drugs seemed to have worn off, but at least the effect would make his pleading come across as more earnest. “It’s not like that, I promise. Jounouchi just wanted somewhere comfortable to sleep. I thought after everything he did, it wasn’t right to refuse him. He – he saved my life, sir. I might not still be here if not for him.” He dropped his gaze humbly. “And I definitely wouldn’t be here if not for you. Thank you for allowing me such prompt medical attention.”
Gozaburo’s eyes narrowed a degree more. “Are you trying to suck up to me, boy?”
Seto kept his gaze down. Perhaps he’d been laying it on too thick. “No, sir.” He forced his tone firmer and flatter, the surface of a polished ice rink. He couldn’t quite hold back the strained, painful cracks spidering around its edges. “I’m just grateful to be alive – grateful to both of you.” He raised his eyes slowly to Gozaburo’s. “I’m glad you shot Nezbitt,” he said, and he let his father see that it was true. He slid his gaze to the side to rest on Jounouchi’s face, trying to invite some sort of commonality between the three of them. “Jounouchi is, too. He said so.”
“Is that so?” Gozaburo said without emotion, glancing to Jounouchi.
“Yeah, of course.” Jounouchi’s expression was still hateful, but it was a little less pointed, a little less murderous. “I probably would have f*cked him up worse than you did with just my fists if your stupid lackeys hadn’t managed to pull me off.”
Gozaburo sighed, his face just barely softening – spiked shards into ordered crystal lattice. “I wasn’t going to let you die, Seto,” he said, as if this was obvious despite everything else he’d allowed to happen to him. “How are you doing?”
Seto nudged Jounouchi away with his leg as his father came around the bed to his side. Begrudgingly, Jounouchi withdrew his defensive arm to give them room, pulling back to sit on the edge of the mattress.
“I’m fine,” Seto replied, although he couldn’t quite stop pain from crimping his features. He shivered as Gozaburo raised a broad hand to his forehead and pushed back his bangs. He felt so exposed; he couldn’t move, and there was nowhere for him to hide.
Slowly, Gozaburo drew his fingers across Seto’s chest, crossing the cuts there, and down over his broken arm to the bandaging around his upper abdomen. Seto flinched despite himself and let out a little noise, half-grunt and half-gasp.
“Don’t – !” Jounouchi started to say fiercely, but Gozaburo was already withdrawing his hand, frowning. His sharp eyes went to the inside of Seto’s left elbow and the flecks of dried blood there.
“You removed your catheter,” he said reproachfully. He looked to Jounouchi. “Or did you do that? Did you let him? I thought you didn’t want him in pain.”
“I don’t,” Jounouchi replied, shakier than before. “I had no idea. I saw how much f*cking blood he lost. I wouldn’t have let him if I’d realized, but…he’s real stupid when he’s being stubborn.”
“It was making my head fuzzy,” Seto said weakly.
“Mhmm.” Gozaburo raised his eyebrows at him. “And how’s your head now?”
It hurt. “Clearer,” Seto muttered, through gritted teeth.
“I will get Kondo to come replace it once we’re done here.”
Seto shook his head. “I don’t need it.”
Jounouchi’s face pinched. “Yeah, you do,” he said quietly.
Gozaburo’s eyes flicked between them and then came to rest again on Seto. “You need fluids, and you need pain medication, and evidently you may need a bit of sedation to stop you from doing things to hamper your own recovery.” Seto opened his mouth to start to argue, but his father put a thick hand on his shoulder, his expression solemn and unquestionable. “Seto, Nezbitt disobeyed me. I did not intend you to be stabbed. The pain from that is not something I require you to bear.”
“You intended the rest of it.” He did not say this with any accusation. It was a simple statement of fact.
Gozaburo sighed, his hand shifting to rest on the base of Seto’s neck. “Yes, I did. But…you did well, Seto.” Seto blinked at him in confusion. Gozaburo massaged the back of his neck like he was wringing out a washcloth. “You endured a lot. I know you won’t believe me, but it was not easy to allow other men to touch you that way.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have let them f*cking rape him, then,” Jounouchi muttered under his breath. Seto shot him a warning look, but Gozaburo ignored him.
“You took your punishment well. You didn’t disappoint me.”
Seto felt very small as he looked up at him. He wanted to shrug off Gozaburo’s broad palm from where it rested over his spine – not because of the quiet threat of it or the way it made his skin crawl with the memories of other times Gozaburo had touched him like this, but because it soothed something deep inside him in a way he couldn’t accept.
“I…I cried,” he said haltingly. Gozaburo never liked him to cry. He felt a bit like crying now. Shame was clogging his throat.
Gozaburo gave a half-shrug, regarding him evenly. “We can work on that. It was hard for you. I was proud of you for taking it as well as you did.”
Seto looked down sharply, his breath catching. Gozaburo did not hand out praise easily, and his words shocked Seto’s heart into an odd, effervescent flutter. He had once so coveted his father’s approval, and now it warmed him and stung him.
Gozaburo slid his hand around Seto’s neck to tilt his chin back up. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to take a little more pain now, Seto,” he said. His expression was almost tender. “But it’s not meant as a cruelty, or a punishment. You can even think of it as a reward.”
Seto nodded slowly, into his father’s hand. He could take pain. He could accept this.
Jounouchi looked between the both of them in horror, his body tensing into readiness. “You can’t hurt him now,” he said desperately. “Please. He’s had enough. He needs to recover. Surely even you can see that.”
“It will be very brief, Jounouchi.” Gozaburo was taking something out of the inside pocket of his jacket, a strange device of plastic polymer and stainless steel. It looked a bit like a curling iron, but with a medical or industrial bent – inelegant but ergonomic, the sort of instrument that could survive an autoclave. “This is a necessary pain, and I know he can bear it. In a way, it will be insurance against future harm. You don’t want him to come to harm, do you?”
“Please,” Jounouchi said again, his voice faltering. “Come on. Whatever this is, you don’t need to do it.”
Gozaburo held the device out in front of Seto’s face, rotating it in front of him. “Do you know what it is, Seto?”
He did not know, but he did not want to fail to answer his father’s question. He considered the thing. Gozaburo held it as though it were denser than it looked. It seemed bottom-heavy, maybe with the weight of some sort of battery in the handle. There were two small ports in the metal tip, hollows waiting to be filled. And this would be used to hurt him somehow – that was an important clue. “Medical cautery?” he guessed, feeling sheepish and ignorant.
Gozaburo grunted, not displeased. “Close,” he said. “Quite close. I had Kondo put it together for me, and that very well may have been what the parts came from. Here, Seto: look.”
He produced a thin, rectangular piece of metal from his pocket, slightly larger in dimensions than a playing card. It had two plugs on its back, which slotted into the tip of the device with a soft click. Gozaburo pointed the whole contraption at him, and Seto saw that there was a raised design on the flat surface of the metal. It was writing, in two lines, and he struggled for a second to read the mirrored characters. Only for a second, though. These words were familiar.
Kaiba Gozaburo.
He understood immediately, even before Gozaburo flicked a switch on the handle and he felt the beginnings of heat wash over his face. The sharp relief of his father’s metal name began to shine with an orange glow, and the air glimmered above it.
“You’re going to brand me,” he whispered, numb with awful comprehension. The dread twisted in his chest into a weird, breathless thrill – the sort of exhilaration that comes with being proven right, even when you want to be wrong. This would be unambiguous; this would be permanent. He would never truly escape. He would be his father’s beast forever.
“Yes.” Gozaburo’s gaze was inevitable blackness, dust and dirt, ash and char. “It’s meant as a protection, Seto. The others will not harm you without permission if they are reminded that you belong to me.” His eyes raked over Jounouchi, who sat frozen with furious clenched fists on the edge of the bed. “Everyone will understand you belong to me.”
Seto narrowed his eyes, trying to force his cloudy mind into the shape of defiance. Gozaburo had managed to pummel him with shame into a state of obedience and pathetic, dissociated submission. Seto belonged with him now, or perhaps he always had, but there was a big difference between belonging with and belonging to, and the possessive rankled. His pride flared within him like sun bouncing off glass and steel.
“I don’t belong to you,” he growled. Gozaburo’s mouth twisted. “I’ve never belonged to you.”
“Belonging to me is the best thing you could possibly aspire to,” Gozaburo said. The hint of tenderness had vanished from his voice. “You little f*cking brat. You’ll understand eventually. This is a gift.”
I don’t want your gifts, Seto thought fiercely, but before he could say it, Gozaburo was yanking the blanket off of him, jerking him onto his side by the shoulder. He cried out at the pain the rough handling spurred in his broken body. Gozaburo grabbed his right leg and bent it forward, holding his thigh half-hoisted obscenely over the bed rail in an iron grip. The brand hovered in the air, several inches away but still near enough for him to feel its heat, just above the back of his hip.
“Jounouchi,” Gozaburo ordered, “Hold his upper body down.”
Jounouchi shook his head. “I won’t,” he hissed through bloodless lips.
“If he struggles, I may have to apply it multiple times,” Gozaburo said, as though this were the most natural thing in the world. “That will mean more pain, and more marks. You don’t want that, do you?”
Seto shivered, imagining his skin littered with little aborted fragments of his father’s name. “I’ll stay still on my own,” he protested. “Jounouchi doesn’t have to be involved in this.”
But Jounouchi, his mouth tight, shifted forward on the bed to kneel at Seto’s back. He huddled over him, winding his free arm underneath his shoulder and around his chest, and he pressed as much of his body against him from above as he could, shielding and enfolding him.
“Jounouchi…”
“If I can’t stop this,” Jounouchi said, speaking through gritted teeth into Seto’s shoulder, “I am not going to watch him burn you with that f*cking thing more than once.”
He curled closer around him and lowered his forehead to Seto’s temple, his face screwed up as though he were the one about to be branded. Seto should have felt humiliated at the thought of Jounouchi pinning him down, but he could sense Jounouchi’s frustration and despair rolling off him in shivering waves, and all he felt was a sharp pang in his chest. Jounouchi’s embrace was steady and secure, his muscles tensed in preparation for stabilizing Seto through what was coming, but it was also gentle, devotedly cautious of his injuries.
Seto felt a rush of wild anger, more on Jounouchi’s behalf than his own. He reached out as well as he could with his broken fingers and placed his right palm against Jounouchi’s bicep in reassurance. “He’s got me,” he said, quiet and clear, and he glared up at his father from beneath the soft pressure of Jounouchi’s head on his. “Do what you have to do.”
Gozaburo scowled darkly and his hand tightened to bruising strength on Seto’s thigh. “You’re mine, Seto,” he growled. “I won’t let you forget it.”
The heated metal struck like a snake, biting into Seto’s hip. The searing pain was shockingly immediate and caused his whole body to convulse once reflexively, but the hands restraining him held firm. As a harsh cry tore from his throat, Jounouchi breathed out shakily against the side of his face and coiled himself tighter around him. It was worse than he had expected. This was not like the familiar pain from the glowing tips of Gozaburo’s cigars – a sharp flare that faded quickly as it was ground out against him. This scorching agony just kept going and going and going. It felt almost perverse; his body protested with anguished, panicked confusion that his reflex arcs ought to be twitching his muscles away from a heat this peeling and blistering. It dug into him deeper and deeper, like a booted foot through wet cement. He felt filled with an irrational, scalding fear that it would sink right through him and get trapped somewhere inside. His skin must be melting.
Gozaburo drew it back, leaving Seto gasping uncontrollably. There was a faint smell of iron and burnt flesh in the air. Jounouchi relaxed his grip just a little, but he did not pull away, instead rocking Seto’s trembling body side-to-side underneath him in stiff, anxious movements, his eyes still shut fast.
“There,” Gozaburo said. “Done. That wasn’t so bad, was it, Seto?”
Seto could do nothing but quiver in response, held against Jounouchi. Gozaburo lowered a finger to his hip and circled it with thoughtful wonderment around the perimeter of the burn he had wrought. Seto’s body twitched and his breath choked in his throat. The skin around his father’s name felt red-hot and hypersensitive, and even that light touch left a raw trail of itchy, tingling pain in its wake. The sensation of the brand itself had faded into an odd numbness over the worst of it; nerve endings must have been pruned away by the heat.
“Good boy,” Gozaburo murmured, and he patted his thigh before releasing it. “You’ve done well. You took what I needed you to – not that I would expect anything less from my property.”
Seto looked up at him dazedly. The pain had cooled and hardened into misshapen igneous rock, sitting heavy and dark in his chest and weighing down his breathing. He glanced down at his hip and could just barely see one side of the brand. In this fresh state it looked messy and ugly and charred, but he knew it would heal into precise lines. He could feel their outlines. Something important inside him had been flaked away to ash, and he had no words to express the feeling of its loss.
Jounouchi had words, though, in his coarse way. Seto could feel the reverberations of a furious growl against his spine, coming from deep in Jounouchi’s chest. “You’re f*cking sick,” he spat, and sat up to glare at Gozaburo. He did not move farther away, keeping his knees and hand pressed firmly to Seto’s back. “You’re evil. You crazy sad*stic bastard…”
“You did well, too, Jounouchi,” Gozaburo said evenly. Jounouchi let out an incredulous snarl. “I’m serious. You allowed me to mark him cleanly, and you’ve been quite cooperative and obedient over the past twenty-four hours – dragging him around, cleaning him so well….” Jounouchi’s breath was coming faster and harsher. He looked down, his face livid and twisted with shame. “Not to mention that you saved his life. I should thank you for that. I’ve been quite pleased with you. You deserve a reward.”
“What, are you going to brand me, too?” Jounouchi bit out caustically. He was trying to sound defiant, but there was a tremor of fear in his voice. Seto’s stomach clenched. His father wouldn’t put his name on Jounouchi of all people, would he?
But Gozaburo shook his head. “No, of course not.” He tilted his head to the side, assessing Jounouchi. “How about a bit of simple pleasure? Based on the position I found you two in, perhaps you’d like to f*ck him now?”
“No,” Jounouchi hissed, his face going pale with rage and revulsion. “I heard what that doctor woman said to you. You’re not supposed to let anyone do that to him until he’s healed. He’s been f*cking brutalized because of you. It’s not even safe.”
Seto shifted uneasily on the bed between them. Jounouchi had seen everything that had happened to him, but hearing him blatantly discussing the injuries he knew must be lurking in the most vulgar part of him made his face flush with new humiliation. He didn’t even know what sort of treatment he’d received. Had he needed stitches? Had Jounouchi seen that, too? Jounouchi caught his discomfort, and threw the blanket definitively back over his naked body, his eyes flashing up at Gozaburo in stark refusal. The rough weave scratched against the burn on his hip, but Seto was grateful for it to be covered.
“You could still have his mouth,” Gozaburo said, amusem*nt quirking his lips. “There are no such limitations on its use. Johnson’s been singing its praises.”
“Come on, no,” Jounouchi pleaded. “His nose is broken. He’s got f*cking tubes everywhere. Even you wouldn’t want to do that to him right now.”
Seto was having trouble finding his voice. It was not a problem he was accustomed to, but he felt like a dumb object, lying between them as they argued over him. He didn’t know what he thought, let alone what to say. Would it make any difference at all if he told Jounouchi that he wasn’t sure he even cared one way or the other anymore, after everything that had been done to him? What was one more co*ck in his mouth? Jounouchi wouldn’t hurt him, either, not unless he needed it to keep his body under control. He owed him his life now.
But Jounouchi’s face was nothing but desperation and disgust. Seto felt sick at himself for even entertaining the thought. He was too filthy; he couldn’t dirty Jounouchi like that. And it would ruin forever that warm, quiet feeling that had lingered between them as they drifted off in the bed together. Seto, with Gozaburo’s name burned into his skin, knew he was selfish for wanting to hold onto whatever that fragile thing was, but he couldn’t help it. He was a selfish creature.
He breathed out sharply, forcing his throat to consider working again. His vocal cords felt seared to pieces. “Father, please,” he managed. “You’ve just branded me with your name, and now you’re going to give me to Jounouchi right away?” His father would recognize the begging for what it was, but there was a plaintive grain of truth in his tone, and also a challenge: was he Gozaburo’s possession, or not?
Gozaburo stared at him hard, and Seto felt like the jumbled black and white of a chess board – not even a player, not even a pawn. He forced himself to lean into it, to make himself a flat object, sharp-lined and neutral. Gozaburo considered him, then shrugged. “I won’t force him right now,” he said. His eyes flicked up to Jounouchi. “Although if this prize is too unappealing, maybe I can offer you something else.”
Jounouchi rolled his eyes, his nostrils flaring. “What could you possibly offer me?”
“How about a job?”
Jounouchi laughed incredulously. “A job? What, do you want me to be his bodyguard, since yours were too useless to stop him from being f*cking stabbed?”
“No,” Gozaburo replied, his voice level. “Obviously, you cannot be trusted with a gun, and I don’t believe Seto’s life will be in danger again. I was thinking something more menial, something that would suit your skillset: the kitchens perhaps.” He frowned at Jounouchi’s blazing expression. “Probably not the kitchens – too many knives. We’ll figure it out.”
“I don’t want to do f*cking anything to help you.” Jounouchi swallowed hard. “I – I want to stay with Seto.”
“You are not going to be allowed to stay with him,” Gozaburo said, almost gently. “If you accept this offer, you may be permitted to still see him occasionally, but Seto will be given his own work to do soon enough, once he has recovered a little more. You would be an unnecessary distraction.”
Seto’s eyes narrowed. Work? Gansley had hinted that they might have use for his talents, but he wasn’t sure what that might entail. What atrocities would he be helping Gozaburo commit? What if he refused? Would he even dare? How much more would he be tortured?
But it was Jounouchi who was still the subject of the conversation. Gozaburo sighed. “This is meant as a favor to you, Jounouchi. The alternative is to leave you to rot in a cell until you’re needed to keep Seto in line. The guards say you’ve been talking to yourself; you don’t have a temperament suited to isolation. Wouldn’t you rather have something to fill your days? A slightly longer leash? Again: this is meant as a reward.”
Jounouchi was glaring fiercely, but he wasn’t refusing outright, either. Seto could feel his hand clench into a fist against his back.
“I can give you the night to consider it,” Gozaburo said. He eyed the way Jounouchi was leaning into Seto, as if afraid that he would be snatched away, and his lips gave a sour curl. “I’ll have a cot brought when Kondo comes, so you don’t have to be so close to him in order to get some rest.”
“I don’t mind.” Jounouchi’s eyes flamed. “I know he’s not dirty, no matter what you make me do to him. There’s nothing wrong with him.”
Seto felt the rush of air as the hand flew past his face, and flinched reflexively. There was a ringing smack as the slap landed on Jounouchi’s cheek, and Jounouchi’s head snapped to the side. He turned it back slowly to Gozaburo, his jaw clenched tight under his reddening skin.
“Be careful, Jounouchi,” Gozaburo said. “He’s a manipulative little rat. Aren’t you, Seto?” Seto winced back despite himself as his father placed his hand on the top of his head. There was something almost prideful in the gesture despite his harsh words. “You’re mine.” His voice dropped to a low, steely timbre. “You belong to me. My boy. Don’t forget it.”
He brushed his fingers through his hair. It was a gentle gesture, and Seto had to resist the urge to lean into it. A bass rumble like distant thunderclouds rolled through his belly, danger and comfort all at once.
Gozaburo withdrew his hand and nodded to both of them once, sharply. “I’ll return in the morning to check on you, Seto, and to receive Jounouchi’s answer. Be good for Kondo. I don’t wish to have to punish you while you’re in this state.”
Seto nodded back, feeling numb. When Gozaburo was gone, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and allowed himself to relax limply back against the bed. The scent of charred skin lingered in the room over the faint undertone of chemical smell. Outside the window, the sky was overcast now, sliding into dusk, and the ocean appeared still and hard as dark shale. In contrast, the white lights of the infirmary made everything inside seem artificial and slightly unreal. Jounouchi, still glaring after the closed door, looked almost mannequin-like in his stillness, his figure held too tight and his skin sallow and wan.
“I’m sorry,” Seto said quietly. He wasn’t even sure what he was apologizing for.
Jounouchi shook his head, and turned his attention back to Seto with great care. “Don’t be. You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. He’s such a f*cking asshole.” His mouth pinched. “How’s the, uh…the burn?”
He moved as if to draw back the blanket to expose it, and Seto shrunk away from him. “Leave it. I don’t want to look at it.”
“Yeah.” Jounouchi breathed out sharply. “Me neither, really. I can’t believe he did that to you.”
“I can,” Seto said, his voice heavy with bitterness.
“He’s evil. I don’t want to do anything to help him.” Jounouchi’s tone was firm, but Seto could hear the question in it, almost pleading.
He sighed. “Taking him up on his offer is a good opportunity, Jounouchi. He’s right that your personality is ill-suited to solitary confinement, and you won’t do any good to either of us trapped in a cell. Maybe you’ll get a chance to learn something.”
“I know. It makes sense.” Jounouchi chewed his lip. “It’s just the principle of the thing. To be working for him…”
“It’s not as though he’s going to pay you a wage. I don’t think mopping some floors or whatever he comes up with will make much difference in helping him achieve his goals. I’m not sure I’ll be able to say the same for whatever he’s going to try to get me to do.”
“Seto…” Jounouchi eased back on the bed and curled up, drawing his knees to his chest. “You’re not going to try to resist him, are you?”
Seto looked sideways at him, pressing his lips together. “As you say, it’s the principle of the thing.”
“Please don’t,” Jounouchi said weakly. “You’re a stubborn bastard, but…you’ve been hurt enough. No one will blame you.”
Seto thought of falling bombs, a battered action figure, Amelda’s raw scarlet fury. When it came to certain levels of suffering, blame was all-encompassing. No one involved could escape. He would never escape. Maybe it was better to try to accept it.
He closed his eyes. His head was pounding, and the smell of his own burnt flesh was turning his stomach. “Can we talk about this later, Jounouchi?” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “I’m tired.”
“Yeah, of course,” Jounouchi said, and Seto grimaced at how quick he was to agree to any accommodations of his weakness. “You need to rest. Do you…do you want me off the bed?”
Seto sighed, and opened his eyes, and shook his head. “No. Stay if you want. Just…try not to touch me, please.”
“Oh. Sure.” Jounouchi hesitated, then pulled his own pillows out from behind him and placed them on the bed between him and Seto, creating a barricade between their torsos and between their thighs. It forced Jounouchi right against the side of the mattress, but he kicked his ankles up on the bed rail and stretched out long, somehow managing to look slovenly comfortable despite the limited space and his bound right hand.
“Do you think we ever would have been friends?” Jounouchi asked into the quiet, almost wistful. “Eventually? In a normal world?”
“I don’t think there’s such a thing as a normal world, for us,” Seto said wearily. Jounouchi gave him a pointed look. “If you mean if this hadn’t happened…I don’t know. Probably not. You know how I am. We’re not really friends now. You’re just trapped with me.”
“We’re something,” Jounouchi said definitively. There was no argument in his voice; he seemed satisfied enough with his own conclusion.
“I suppose we are something,” Seto allowed, almost too soft to be heard. What they were exactly, he wasn’t sure. Two stray dogs, half-feral, making their own little pack out of necessity. Two gutter rats clinging to each other to avoid being washed away. Two nobodies, two nothings – Jounouchi rising up from the unforgiving void of meagre anonymity, Seto reduced from great heights to almost complete erasure – somehow equaling something, miniscule against the powers against them but nonetheless still there.
*
It was impossible to really rest. In the quiet of the room, with the drugs long-since worn off, Seto’s body fought hard for his attention. He ached deeply everywhere, and had to hold himself stiff and still to try to minimize it. The pain from his broken arm was like a screw drilling insistently into him, and the feeling of the stab wound ebbed and flowed with each breath. He especially tried not to think about the soreness underneath and inside of him, but it was like a hangnail, something his mind kept compulsively returning to, twisting around, fiddling with despite the sting it drew, as if he might be able to peel it away from himself.
He calculated pi to digit after digit as an attempt at a distracting meditation, not wanting to let an uncontrolled breath or flinch draw Jounouchi’s concern from across the low wall of pillows between them. When it grew dark outside, he realized he could see the room reflected in the black of the window. He did not look at himself – Loser, his mind whispered – but he watched Jounouchi’s mirrored form. He did not think he was truly asleep, but he was resting easier than Seto despite the awkwardness of his position, his free hand folded across his belly. Seto watched it rise and fall, and counted his breaths. Jounouchi was a better diversion than the mathematics, at least until Seto found himself wondering with terrible resignation what it would feel like when he was f*cked by him.
He already knew what it would feel like, he told himself firmly, shame bringing with it a flash of discomfort as his body tensed and he dropped his eyes from the window. He had plenty of experience. It would feel the same as any of the other times, except maybe it would hurt a bit less. There was no reason why Jounouchi raping him would be anything different.
He was grateful when the door finally opened: for the distraction from himself, and also, embarrassingly, for the possibility that he would receive something for the pain.
A small woman with a large head of dark hair and a white coat entered, accompanied by Mori, who was carrying a folded camp cot, canvas on an aluminum frame. The woman gave a small, darting gesture to the side of the bed with one hand, and Mori worked quickly to set up the cot as she picked up a gleaming tablet – Kaiba Corp tech, his tech – and flicked her fingertips across it, reading through something on the screen. When Mori had finished, she tilted her head towards the door, barely looking at him.
Mori hesitated. His eyes passed guiltily over Seto and Jounouchi. He seemed to be weighing something, his tongue pressed against his teeth.
The woman – Kondo, this must be – glanced up at Mori’s conflicted expression. “I know, I know,” she said dismissively. “You’re supposed to protect me, but I’d prefer not to have someone hovering over me with a gun while I work, if it’s all the same to you. I promise, if they try anything, I’ll scream.”
It was hard to imagine her screaming. She had a quiet, quick voice, lower-pitched than he had expected, with a breathy quality like something pneumatic, like the fluttering of insect wings.
“But Mr. Kaiba…” Mori started.
“Kaiba has given me plenty of leeway to work as I desire so far,” Kondo said, her eyes wide and blank as she studied Mori’s face. “I don’t think he’s about to stop now. You are excused.”
Mori paused, then bowed to her. When he straightened up, his gaze went back to Seto. He met his eyes and gave him a meaningful, held-back look that Seto wasn’t sure how to interpret, then turned on his heel and went back out the door.
Kondo did not address them right away once Mori had left. She continued scrutinizing the tablet for several long moments, pacing with short, almost anxious steps, then circled the bed to check the blinking lights of the machines. Finally, she sighed, and looked at Seto as though she rather wouldn’t.
“Pain score?” she said, her voice very flat. “Out of ten, please.”
Seto breathed in and then out. Even if he was inclined to answer honestly, he had been in such pain of so many different kinds for so long that he wasn’t sure how to compare. “Four.”
One of Kondo’s thin brows arched up, then came down again just as quickly, as if embarrassed to have moved against the still background of her face. “That seems unlikely.” Her eyes were very light in color, and they passed over him like a glittering fishing net, catching all the little details without focusing on any one in particular. “Although Kaiba did say you have a high pain tolerance.” She peered into his face, assessing it in the same way she had the tablet. “You don’t have any obvious pain markers in your expression, I suppose.”
She reached out a delicate finger and prodded with firm, professional pressure at Seto’s splinted arm in its sling. Seto cried out before he could stop himself, his face crinkling.
“Hey – !” Jounouchi jolted forwards, but Konda had already taken her hand away and was making a note on the tablet, ignoring them. Jounouchi glared. “Your bedside manner really leaves something to be desired, doc.”
“I haven’t been in practice with live patients since I received my medical license,” Kondo said, with no real emotion. “Frankly, this sort of work is a waste of my skillset.”
What was her skillset? Seto frowned and opened his mouth to ask, but Kondo was already moving on.
“When did you remove your IV?”
“I’m not sure.” He disliked not being able to answer questions. “Midmorning, perhaps? Before noon.”
She nodded, without judgment or admonition. “If your pain is as manageable as you say, then we’ll wait to replace it until after your treatment.”
“My treatment?”
“Yes.” She put down the tablet and regarded him a little more like he was a person and not a malfunctioning machine. “I know you’re intelligent. You might enjoy this, although it’s a bit…wet work for your sensibilities, based on your patent history. The tech is fairly new. I developed it myself.” She frowned slightly, her eyes going to Jounouchi for just a millisecond. “You – what’s-your-name – help him sit up so I can deal with the bandages.”
“It’s Jounouchi,” Jounouchi muttered. Kondo did not acknowledge him.
Seto had no choice but to acquiesce as Jounouchi slipped his arm around him to pull him up. Kondo’s slender fingers danced spider-like over the bandages as she swiftly unwound them from his torso. The fabric stuck a little at the final layer, then pulled away to reveal a line of stitches, almost a hand’s breadth long, just under his last rib.
“That’s a lot longer than the knife wound was,” Seto said.
“I had to go in to find the source of the bleeding.” Kondo examined the incision briefly and seemed satisfied with it. Seto felt a brief curdling of self-conscious discomfort at the thought that yet another person’s hands had been inside him. “You punctured your liver.”
“Nezbitt punctured his liver,” Jounouchi cut in.
“Yes,” Kondo said drily. “My esteemed colleague. Not very smart of him.”
“How is the bastard?” Jounouchi asked.
Kondo’s fingers flicked out once, perfunctorily. “Small caliber bullet, no bony damage. He won’t walk well for quite a while, but he’ll recover. Here.” She pointed to Jounouchi, then to the leather cuffs. “You unfasten these silly straps. I’ll get the immersion therapy set up.”
Seto watched Kondo closely as Jounouchi bent to release him. She went to what he had assumed was another hospital bed under an opaque dust cover – although he realized belatedly that this didn’t make any sense; they wouldn’t have needed to bring a cot for Jounouchi if there was already another bed in the room. Kondo wheeled it closer, and it rolled lumberingly across the floor, much heavier than he had supposed. When she removed the covering, it revealed what looked like a large vivarium: an open-topped tank roughly the size of a bathtub with plexiglass sides and a sleek, esoteric control panel.
“What is that?” Jounouchi asked, but Kondo didn’t answer.
She scurried around it, mouse-like, and connected it with an electrical cord and then a thick hose to a big, blocky device affixed to the wall. The thing came alive with a soft chirp, a screen lighting up on the control panel. Kondo’s fingers skittered nimbly over it, and a moment later there was a dull mechanical pumping sound and the tank started filling with a thick, translucent greenish liquid.
Seto’s eyes narrowed, remembering the tank they’d seen Crump floating inside in the lab – Kondo’s lab. “It was you,” he said slowly. “You’re the one who resurrected them.” His mind was struggling to reconcile this small, strange woman with the enabler of his father’s return.
“Yes,” Kondo said simply. She was fussing over the machine with much more care than she’d shown Seto. Her limbs moved with odd, fidgety flurries at her periphery, but she held her center of mass very still. Combined with the blankness of her face, it made her activity seem almost dreamlike, like a sleepwalker who doesn’t understand the activities they reflexively perform. Her pale gaze fell very broadly over whatever she looked at, as though she were capable of taking it all in at once, or looking past it to something deeper. Seto was reminded of the big, directionless compound eyes of a dragonfly, hovering in place in the air.
“That’s…” He stared at her as she adjusted a dial. What was there to say to the person who had brought his father back from the dead? “How on earth did Kaiba Corp not scout you? Why weren’t you on my payroll?”
The corner of her mouth twitched for the briefest moment into a half-smile. “You are a notorious skeptic, and some of my interests and methods are…unorthodox. Besides, Kaiba Corp’s portfolio has always neglected the biological sciences. That’s the problem with most tech companies: the over-siloing of knowledge.”
“We’ve done some medical research,” Seto protested. “We’re the best in the world when it comes to biomimicry prosthetics. And, assuming you’re keeping up with things, you’ll know the work coming out of our cybernetics department is very promising.”
“True enough.” Kondo turned to face him as the tank continued to fill, tilting her head by the slightest degree to the side. “Really, the problem was more about your ethos. Too many scruples.”
Seto scoffed. “I am famously unscrupulous.”
“Maybe in your personal life, or when it comes to that card game you like so much. But I’ve looked into the sort of ethical approval Kaiba Corp requires for human subject testing. Very by-the-book.” She fluttered one hand disdainfully. “It would have been a poor match for my research interests.”
“What are your research interests?”
Kondo stared at him, through him. “Defeating death. Achieving the singularity. Harnessing the power of the soul.”
“Ah,” Seto said drily. “So you’re crazy.”
She gave a short laugh, a single ha like the rustling of dry leaves. “See, this is why I wasn’t on your payroll. Lack of imagination. Anyway, I’m working for Kaiba Corp now.” The tank made another chirping noise. It seemed to have finished filling. Kondo took a vacuette tube of red liquid out of her coat pocket and placed it into a slot by the control panel. It was hard to imagine it was anything other than blood. “You.” She looked to Jounouchi again. “Help me get him in here.”
Jounouchi eyed the tank with extreme suspicion, but when Seto started trying to move, he immediately reached out to assist him. It was difficult and slow – Jounouchi could only do so much with his right hand still cuffed to the chair, and every little motion hurt – but Kondo was all wide-eyed patience as she watched them.
“Pain score?” Kondo asked again when Seto had made it to the edge of the bed. He sat there with his legs over the side, Jounouchi helping him stay upright, his body trembling and his breath very short. He was sweating.
He swallowed hard and clenched his jaw. “Higher than four,” he admitted.
She nodded once and moved to unfasten his sling. A quiet groan escaped him despite his attempts to hold it back. “The serum will help with that, a little. I’ll go ahead and get your catheter back in while you’re soaking as well. Try to keep that arm still.”
He didn’t really need to be told. Without the sling keeping it bound against his chest, even small movements of his splinted forearm hurt.
Kondo came to his other side, and together, she and Jounouchi managed to haul him to his feet and help him get his long legs over the side of the tank. She drew away from him again as soon as possible, directing Jounouchi to assist him in sitting down in the liquid from several feet away. She did not seem to like to touch him. Strange, for a doctor.
Or perhaps not so strange. The physician Gozaburo had brought to deal with the worst of Seto’s injuries when he was young had also seemed uncomfortable with touching him or even looking at him too much. He had been an old, thin man with an exhausted face, who steadfastly ignored Seto’s stare and the evidence of any bodily harm other than what he had been told to fix. There had been the broken wrist, the stitches in his lip, the infected wound on his shoulder – the embedded collar. Gozaburo did not know much when it came to children, and, in his ignorance, he seemed to forget that the thing about boys is that they grow, no matter how little you feed them. Seto had been too proud to ask for the collar to be loosened until it had dug in so deeply that his skin had started to grow over its edges again. He still remembered the old doctor’s expression – discomfort and dull, absent-minded guilt – as he prised the thing out of the flesh of his neck.
Kondo did not look guilty. She looked far away, already partway submerged in whatever the new world she imagined looked like.
The liquid felt strange as he settled into it. It was room temperature, and rippled almost not at all with the movements of his body. Despite how viscous it had looked while filling the tank, it felt very light – lighter than water, with an odd alcoholic tingle. It did not sting his wounds, though; in fact, almost immediately, he felt a soothing aloe coolness over the worst of his injuries.
“Keep your right arm out of it,” Kondo said absent-mindedly. Seto obeyed, resting it against the rim of the tank with a grimace. “Soaking the fracture would be beneficial, but I don’t think it’s worth my time to be constantly re-splinting it.”
“What is this?” he asked. He scooped some of it up in his left hand and watched it spill again. Despite feeling obviously wet, it seemed to move more like sand than liquid. No moisture remained on his skin when it was gone.
“You know I’m not going to give you any details,” Kondo said. Her restless fingers adjusted a dial on the interface, and the tingling sensation increased with a pleasant staticky hum he felt in his bones.
“Can you blame me? I know you used something like this to make a new body for a dead man. Some people would call that miraculous. Consider my curiosity piqued. And even if it wasn’t: you’re asking me to trust in an experimental treatment.”
“I assure you, it’s quite safe,” Kondo replied in her flat, breathy voice. “And effective. Kaiba wants you up and able to concentrate on things sooner than the weeks it would take you to heal otherwise.”
Seto frowned. The way she said Kaiba discomfited him. It was a name that he was used to hearing with respect, admiration, fear…sometimes anger or hatred. There was nothing disdainful in her voice, but she flung the name out as casually as she did her spidery limbs.
Jounouchi’s eyes narrowed. “How can you possibly be okay with this?” he demanded. He glanced sideways at Seto’s broken body, then back to Kondo, expression furious. “You’re a doctor. Why are you working for him when you know he does stuff like this?”
Kondo stared at him. “There’s no reason one person’s suffering should be over-valued in the pursuit of greater goals, and the goals of my research are great indeed. I agreed to Kaiba’s proposition because completing the task he set me was rather elegant as a proof-of-concept for this technology, and because he lets me work as I wish. And…” Her voice trailed off; her eyes went somewhere deeper again. “...Because he has vision for the world. I don’t think that was always true, but I suppose dying has a way of giving you new ideas, a greater perspective.” A strange look passed over her face. “I’d like to try it sometime, myself.”
“I have some experience with how it feels to die,” Seto said, his voice bitter and sharp. Even in the brightness of the infirmary, the memory of Wicked Worm Beast bearing down on him and his consciousness being snuffed out over and over again filled his guts with writhing coldness. “I can’t say I recommend it. The only thing it did was make me more vengeful. I’ve seen no reason to believe my father gained anything greater from it.”
“Hm. That is interesting.” Kondo looked at him with a more present focus. “I’ll have to interview you about your experience sometime. For now, though…”
The tingling increased by another notch to a deep, buzzing resonance he could feel reverberating against his ribcage. Kondo sighed and straightened her posture, then began to speak with a flat, measured cadence as though giving a presentation she found rather tedious. “Try to relax. Close your eyes, if it helps. Make yourself aware of your body, your injuries, and then try to imagine yourself whole. Remember what it felt like when you were healthy and concentrate on visualizing that.”
He scoffed. “Seriously? What is this New Age bullsh*t? I thought you were a scientist.”
“This is science,” Kondo replied evenly. “Just a bit more advanced than what you’re used to.”
“I don’t think visualization exercises are going to fix me. You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I assure you, I am not. Even with your skepticism, you believe in the soul – the mind, the self, whatever you want to call it.”
“I believe in my brain, in neurons and synapses.”
“Hardware.” Kondo’s gaze had an intense gleam now. “But the more important bit is the program, the information, the thing that has no mass or volume and yet can have such an effect on the world. And it is a thing. It’s not just words on the page of your brain. It has its own characteristics, which can be measured and manipulated with the right technology. But I’m getting off track…” She waved her hand. “The soul has energy. Given the right circ*mstances, it can maintain itself, even in an inorganic or rudimentary vessel. In exceptional circ*mstances, it can persist even beyond the destruction of that vessel. But it does desire – and in most cases, require – a vessel, and it has vessel-preference.”
Seto’s eyes narrowed dubiously, and Kondo let out another dry little laugh.
“It’s not such a strange idea. I know you’re not one to believe in ghost stories, but usually spirits are said to want to inhabit things that remind them of their past self – or people who remind them of their past self. You see, the soul has a self-image. It wants its vessel to match, and – this is the really key thing – it has the power to make that happen. In incremental ways, usually, but still.”
“So: my soul is going to heal me.”
“Yes,” Kondo said. “For most people, their self-image, their vessel-preference, is for a body that is healthy and strong. I have a theory that this is an important part of the natural healing process, but this is much more than that. This…” She traced her fingertips lovingly over the rim of the tank. “...is a harnessing of that power. Not the first, I believe, but the first in our modern age.”
“Incredible, if it’s true.”
“It is true.” Kondo smiled at him, showing small, perfect teeth. He realized that it was very difficult to tell how old she was. “It’s revolutionary. And your vessel is in a very bad state, so you may as well suspend your disbelief. You don’t really have better options.”
“Modern medicine?” Seto suggested. “That might be a better option.”
“I’ve already done everything I can for you with ‘modern medicine’, and I will continue to do so as long as Kaiba directs me. As I’ve told you, this is just speeding up the process. So, try.”
Despite himself, Seto glanced to Jounouchi, who was kneeling now at his side by the edge of the tank, one arm perched over the rim. Jounouchi raised his eyebrows at him and gave him a little hopeful nod. Seto snorted. Credulous idiot. Jounouchi would try anything.
Jounouchi would try anything, and he would try for Jounouchi. Letting out an exasperated huff of air at himself, he leaned back in the tank and attempted to focus on his body. The pain was still there, but the strange humming coursing through him made him feel like it was something separate from him, like a model in miniature that he could hold in his hands and manipulate to see from every angle.
What had it been like when he was not in pain? When he had been strong, capable, undefeatable? He remembered shoving himself out of a window, the rush of air as he fell, his heart hammering in his chest, landing, rolling, running. He had been weak then, too, but he had propelled himself forward with conviction in the ability of his body to carry him, with the desperate drumbeat pounding in his blood that somewhere, Mokuba needed him. The great crush of impact had shuddered through him, an aching vibration in his joints and spine, but he had shaken it off. He had kept moving.
He tried to imagine such a thing now. What would happen if he tried to escape out the window as Jounouchi had suggested? He fixed it in his mind: he was healthy, he was whole, he was falling; it almost felt like flying. In the absence of anything but gravity and wind, he could imagine the pain gone. It all crumbled as the ground came up to meet him. He couldn’t make it play out in a way that didn’t send stunning agony through the beaten soles of his feet, that didn’t end in his injured knee collapsing beneath him, leaving him helpless and broken in the dirt. And then he was somewhere else, barely holding himself upright, and Gozaburo was stamping down on the back of his leg, shoving him forwards onto the tile…
“That’s not it,” Kondo said. She frowned at the controls. “If you’re finding it too difficult, it’s best not to try. Just relax instead.”
Seto glared up at her. “You’re reading my mind?”
“No.” Her lips pursed, just a little. “That is a more difficult problem, although one that I am making progress on solving, thanks to Kaiba’s resources. I just have some rudimentary information on how the serum is reacting and the efficacy of the treatment.”
“Is that what happened to Gansley?” Seto asked, remembering the prosthetic foot. “The serum didn’t react well?”
He was not even trying to be subtle about fishing for more information, but if he knew one thing about scientists, it was that they were easy to draw into talking about their work. Sure enough, Kondo obliged him.
“In a way,” she said. “Although the serum itself can’t be blamed; it was just behaving as intended. Sometimes, the soul’s self-image comes to include debilities. Gansley’s injury was very old. He had had that metal in his ankle and walked with a cane for decades – more than half his life. He couldn’t imagine himself without it.” She looked up at him, measuring. “You don’t have to worry about that, though. We were rebuilding Gansley’s form from scratch, out of just his soul-data and a scrap of DNA. You are already relatively whole. The worst that should happen is your healing would be slowed – but we don’t want that. So, if you can’t do it, just don’t think about anything instead of trying to force it.”
Seto nodded and took a deep breath. His injuries were not old. There was no reason he shouldn’t be able to do this.
Under normal circ*mstances, he did not like to think about his body too much. It was inconvenient, with its cravings for such time-wastes as sleep and food, its propensity to produce sweat and attract dirt. Even when practicing judo, he felt more like it was an unruly machine he had to bend to his will than something he truly inhabited. Surely things would be easier if he could just be an untethered mind, swift and sure. What was the point of having a body, anyway?
For whatever uses his father desired, he thought bitterly. Gozaburo’s voice echoed in his head: There’s only one thing this mouth is good for…
He pushed the thought away and tried to reach instead for the one thing that had always worked best at loosening his father’s hold on him. Mokuba. It was for Mokuba. Protecting Mokuba was the one true purpose of his physical form.
He remembered his father – his real father, his face worn and eyes red-rimmed – placing that tiny bundle into his arms, showing him how to support the thing’s neck. Seto had been a small, slight child, but Mokuba was much smaller. When those wrinkled, sleepy little eyes had looked up at him, he had felt so strong. He had slept on a blanket in front of Mokuba’s crib for weeks just to watch him breathe, and, once Mokuba was a little older, he would pluck him up out of the crib in the mornings and carry him on his hip to the kitchen for breakfast. Never, not once in his life, had Mokuba’s weight been too much for him.
Mokuba wasn’t here, though. Mokuba was gone. Seto had been forced to pass off responsibility for his safety due to his own weakness. It was very possible he would never see him again.
Maybe it was for the best. He had a sudden flash of another memory: lashing out with both arms, Mokuba falling heavily to the floor in front of him with anguished betrayal in his eyes. He flinched with disgust at himself, and the movement brought with it pain. It was good that his arm was broken. It was good that he was hurt. Being hurt had always meant that he was keeping Mokuba safe. And Mokuba was safe now, away from him.
Kondo sighed. “Whatever you’re doing, that’s not it, either. Maybe the pain’s getting in the way. I’ll get your drip set back up and give you some analgesia.” She stepped away from the control panel. “I’d appreciate you not lying to me about your pain score in the future.”
“I wasn’t lying,” Seto grumbled under his breath as she crossed the room to the cabinets.
“Hey.” Jounouchi put a hand on his shoulder. Seto looked at him, and Jounouchi gave him a small smile and a little squeeze. “Come on. You can do this. Why don’t you try concentrating on the stab wound? It’s the most recent thing.”
Seto frowned. Was he saying that because he knew that that was the one wound Gozaburo had not intended for him? Could Seto not even imagine himself without his father’s permission?
It was a sensible suggestion regardless. He sighed, and brought his awareness down to the line of suture on his stomach. It had not been there twenty-four hours ago. It had not been there when he was alone in his cell. He tried to remember what his body had felt like then, but his mind had been so adrift during those long, blind hours of huddled kneeling that it did no good.
It had not been there in the bathroom. But he did not want to think about what had happened in the bathroom.
It hadn’t been there afterwards, either. Jounouchi had wrapped his arms around him over the duvet and held him still with desperate strength, and there had been no hole in his abdomen. Jounouchi’s firm grasp had not hurt him.
He felt a sting of embarrassment at the memory of Jounouchi restraining him, and then a real sting as his concentration was broken by Kondo sliding a needle deftly into his left arm. Jounouchi moved behind him to give her room to work as she fussed with arranging the cannula and setting up the IV line, and Seto felt his breath warm on his neck.
Jounouchi gave his shoulder another little squeeze. “You’ve got this,” he whispered. “We’re gonna get you better.”
"Shut up," Seto muttered back to him, but he closed his eyes.
He returned to the image of Jounouchi pinning his arms to his sides, his chest solid against his back. It was easier with the real Jounouchi behind him, in a rough approximation of their positions then. How had his body felt beneath the duvet? Aching, yes, but not so badly injured as now. He imagined himself running his own hand along the bottom of his ribcage and touching only smooth, unmarred skin. No pain, just healing scars from the whip.
He started to relax into the visualization, focusing on that one spot. Mentally, he pressed his fingers against it, rubbing little imaginary circles, fixing in his mind the firmness of intact skin and muscle beneath. A brief wave of pain from the bruising on his ribs threatened to disrupt it, and he struggled to bring his attention back. He just needed to think about the wound – no, not the wound; the lack-of-wound. He just needed to imagine how it would feel if this had never happened.
And then he realized with a start that he was imagining a different hand touching him: broader-knuckled than his own with short, grimy fingernails, pressing itself gently against him and spreading a bright warmth from its calloused palm down through the layers of his tissues.
“Yes, there you go,” Kondo said. She had finished with the IV and was standing again by the control panel. “That’s getting a much stronger reaction. I’m sure you feel it. Keep doing what you’re doing.”
Seto felt his whole face flush. Jounouchi’s hand – his real hand – rubbed encouragingly across his shoulder, and Seto’s stomach clenched in mortification. What was he doing? Why should imagining Jounouchi’s hand work so much better than his own?
Kondo was right, though: something seemed to be happening. He felt a living, pleasant heat tingling around the stab wound under the soothing coolness of the serum. He squeezed his eyes more tightly shut and drew in a deep breath, swearing to himself never to reveal this to anyone.
It was surprisingly easy to bring to mind the ghostly imprint of Jounouchi’s hand again. At first, he just let it rest against him, his body tense with anxiety and embarrassment at the concept of a sensation more intimate than anything he would ever allow in real life. But then his mind started to drift with the weightlessness of the serum, and he imagined the hand starting to move: just little excursions at first, a small back-and-forth massage. With every pass, he could allow his perception of the stab wound to grow fainter, like Jounouchi’s palm was an eraser rubbing the injury off of his body, until the only thing being touched was his healthy, unbroken skin.
Then he was picturing it moving more, over his ribs, and it felt like rough sunshine against him, seeping into his bones. Each place it traced over, he imagined healed. Broken ribs smoothed straight and whole, bruises wiped away, open skin knitted effortlessly together – all as Jounouchi’s hand passed over him, gentle and sure.
There were certain places he could not allow to be touched, even in his mind. He found himself flinching reflexively when he started to think of the hand travelling towards the gashes written across his chest and had to force it back to the stab wound to center himself. Even the abstract concept of Jounouchi touching the brand on his hip made him sick, and he knew he would never even begin to imagine anyone, even himself, being permitted near his more intimate injuries.
But he could imagine Jounouchi touching his broken arm, grasping the fingers of his right hand – as he now had many times before – and finding them faultless and strong. He remembered the tender caution with which Jounouchi had cleaned him in the bath, and he could even imagine Jounouchi laying a hand on his injured knee, without a washcloth between them this time, and feeling that warmth without any pain.
Then, without Seto willing it, the vision of Jounouchi was clasping him by the forearm, pulling him steadily to his feet, and his soles hit the ground without hurting. He returned Jounouchi’s firm grip without a second thought, and his knee held his weight easily. It was not just Jounouchi’s hand he was picturing now, but all of him: standing in front of him in his entirety, maintaining his hold on Seto’s arm. A slow and crooked grin spread across his features as he looked Seto in the face, delighted to see him standing on his own again.
Seto felt a shock dive through him as he met the imagined Jounouchi’s eyes. It felt like a pillar of light possessing him, overtaking and shining up from his core like a beacon, a lightning strike in reverse. His stomach leapt like he had just gone over an air time hill on a roller coaster, like he had just pulled out of a perfect barrel roll in his jet. He was not falling; he was soaring.
He quashed the feeling immediately. Inexplicable shame made him plummet back to earth, filling his insides with concrete. He opened his eyes against the fantasy, almost panting at the intensity of it, and the real Jounouchi was there, shifting around to his side, face tight with worry. Seto met his gaze for just an instant, and then looked away at once. His stomach still didn’t seem sure which way was up – his body in the barrel roll.
“Excellent,” Kondo said, not taking any notice of his discomfort. “Really excellent.”
“You okay?” Jounouchi asked quietly. Seto, still breathless, studiously ignored him.
“Are we done?” He directed his voice towards Kondo, trying not to sound pleading. “I think I’m finding this a bit…exhausting.”
“Hm.” Kondo gave him her level stare, and Seto felt terrified for a moment that she could read his mind. “It shouldn’t be tiring. Quite the opposite, really. But it is your first time. Maybe it takes some getting used to. And I did administer a low-dose sedative with your pain meds.”
Seto tried to convince himself that the drugs she’d given him had been responsible for his brain being unruly enough to imagine Jounouchi like that, but a deeper part of him knew that it wasn’t true. It was him. It was all him, weak again. Disgusting.
He shrugged off Jounouchi’s hand from his shoulder as Kondo pressed more buttons on the control panel. The deep pulsing resonance of the serum faded around him, although a feathery hum lingered in his bones, and then the machine gave a last sad chirp and the liquid started to drain.
“We’ll end things here for today,” Kondo said. “I think you’ve made good progress. We’ll try for a longer session tomorrow.”
“I have to do this again?”
“Several times. Although, based on my initial testing, I hope to have you in good shape by the end of the week. I’ll want to take radiographs in the next day or two to see if your arm is healing without direct contact with the serum.” She gave a flippant gesture to Jounouchi. “Help him back to the bed, please.”
He flinched away despite himself when Jounouchi’s hands made contact with him. Jounouchi drew back, biting his lip, and waited with uncharacteristic patience to help until Seto had centered himself enough to force himself to accept his touch and try to get up.
They did not need Kondo to assist them this time. It took a little longer to get Seto back into the bed, but only because they had to navigate around the IV line. Seto wanted to remain dubious of Kondo’s strange technology, but he had to admit that he felt considerably stronger, a bit less sore. Jounouchi seemed to sense a difference, too; he was practically beaming as he helped him ease onto the mattress and arrange the blankets around his legs. Seto felt sick at himself.
Kondo came over to examine him, listening to his chest with the cold bell of a stethoscope and then taking another look at his incision. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking, but the skin did seem a bit more knitted together beneath the sutures. Kondo hummed tunelessly to herself as she rebandaged him and fixed his arm back in the sling. When she straightened back up, she seemed pleased.
“What’s left to do with you?” she said, not really addressing him as her eyes swept up and down his body. “Nutrition, I suppose. Kaiba seemed to doubt that you would be willing to eat on your own. I placed an NG tube while you were out, but it will make things easier if you take care of your own feeding.”
Seto’s eyes narrowed and he raised a hand to his own face. Sure enough, there was a slender tube running out of his nose, taped to the side of his face and then tucked neatly behind one ear. Another foreign object invading him. The thought of it being used to fill him up while he was helpless to stop it made nausea run through him.
“I’ll feed myself,” he said firmly, glaring at Kondo. “Any other surprises you gave me while I was unconscious that I should know about?”
“I also inserted a subdermal microchip tracker,” Kondo replied without emotion. “Kaiba requested it.”
Seto took a deep breath in and then out again. “Of course he did.” He shot a sharp, admonishing look at Jounouchi. Running would have done no good. But Jounouchi only looked back at him with his jaw set in grim determination, and Seto was forced to look away.
Kondo wheeled a little cart over next to the bed and set a single opaque plastic bottle on top of it. “You’ll drink half of this tonight, and half in the morning. Not faster than that: you’re still at risk of refeeding syndrome. We’ll increase your intake incrementally. You’ll cooperate with that?”
He nodded and gritted his teeth. “I’ll cooperate.”
“I’ll make sure he does,” Jounouchi added. Seto rolled his eyes, biting back his instinct to tell Jounouchi to shut up again.
“Fine.” Kondo gestured to the leather cuff attached to the bed rail. “I’d like to leave these off of you; I don’t want to have to deal with you getting bedsores on top of everything else. You won’t try anything foolish?”
“I just said I’ll cooperate,” Seto snapped.
Kondo nodded slowly. “I think we’re done here, then, for now.” She turned away as if to leave and then paused, looking back at him with no expression. “I look forward to working with you, Kaiba Seto,” she said, her voice flat.
Seto laughed. It hurt less than it had before. “I don’t.”
Kondo’s mouth twitched up into a barely-there half-smile. “Maybe you’ll come around,” she said, a fervent undercurrent in her voice. “You’re being given the chance to be part of something great. People will remember you, maybe for the rest of history.”
He pressed his lips tightly together and didn’t reply as she left. He’d been chasing greatness for the whole of his life, but he didn’t want to be remembered if it meant being remembered like this. Kaiba Seto: pitiful, broken victim. Kaiba Seto: filthy whor*, collaborator in evil, his father’s son.
Jounouchi was studying his face, his eyes warm with concern. Seto could not even attempt to meet them. Kaiba Seto: poisoner of every good, bright thing that had the misfortune to come in contact with him.
“You okay?” Jounouchi asked. He sat carefully on the edge of the mattress. “It seemed like that stuff helped a little. Are you feeling – ?”
“Get off the bed,” Seto said, his voice harsh. He felt as though there were some sort of toxic grease on his skin, creating an infectious miasma around him. Even his thoughts were polluted.
Jounouchi blinked at him. “What?”
“You heard me.” He snatched up the bottle from the little cart beside the bed before Jounouchi could offer to help him with it and glared down at it as he fumbled with the lid to avoid looking at him.
“Oh. Okay.” Jounouchi moved to the cot, and sat there with his elbows resting on his knees, looking up at him. Seto felt a pang in his stomach at the hurt on his face, but he shoved it down. “Are you…?”
“I’m fine.” Seto took a single sip of the drink. It was very thick, and tasted like cardboard flavored with a hint of cloying, artificial vanilla. “You just shouldn’t – you should keep more distance between us. You should try to avoid touching me as much as you can.”
“Seto…”
“I mean it. My father doesn’t like it.” Another sip. He grimaced. “Tomorrow, you’ll accept his offer. You’ll be safer separated from me. You’ll keep your head down, and you’ll try to listen out for what you can: for any word on Yugi, for any information about what they’re planning.”
Jounouchi sighed, then nodded once, his face hard. “Okay.” He lay back heavily on the cot, staring up at the ceiling, and was quiet as Seto choked down more swallows. He despised the wet sounds of his own throat working.
Jounouchi did not speak again for a long time. When he finally did, his voice was shining with some thick, tremulous emotion. “Seto…I meant it. Everything I said earlier, I meant. I just want you to know that.”
Seto put the bottle to the side and closed his eyes. His heart ached. “I know,” he breathed into the whiteness of the room. “I know you did.”
Jounouchi did not reply. Seto kept his eyes tightly closed. For just the briefest moment, he allowed himself to imagine Jounouchi’s hand again, resting lightly over where his own lay, clenched on top of the sheets. It rubbed gingerly over his knuckles before twining their fingers together. Then he banished it. Whatever something the two of them were could not include that.
Without anything else to occupy him, his thoughts went instead to the feeling of the brand on his hip. This is what he was now: his father’s property. Jounouchi should not be exposed to this, not even in his thoughts. He tilted his head back against the pillow and felt his heart beat along the charred lines of Gozaburo’s name, pounding steadily deeper and deeper into him like the clang of hammer on anvil, until he could feel nothing else.
