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Most people did not matter.
The staff of the mansion, his teachers, the business partners at the conferences, they all served their purpose, but all that mattered was their usefulness to him. He did not have to concern himself with them beyond that.
His father had taught him that much. It had been one of the first things Seto had learned by observing him closely, the mold he needed to shape himself after.
When Seto and his brother had moved to live with their new father, it had been difficult for Seto to not feel isolated in this vast, quiet mansion. He had to spent most of his days inside with his private tutors and there was so much to learn that he was barely able to see his little brother each evening.
Trapped in his room with his books, Seto could not bear the silence at times.
At night, he’d sometimes lie wide awake no matter how exhausted he was, his pulse loud in his ears, and it was as if the world was closing in on him, alone in the darkening room. It was then that he almost wished for the distant noises of the orphanage and gentle snoring by his side.
Even softly reciting conjugations of irregular verbs under his breath could not entirely shake the feeling in his chest, but it would eventually quiet his thoughts enough so he could fall into an uneven sleep.
His initial struggles made Seto all the more impressed by the fact that his father could bear living in this vast mansion, all on his own.
Gozaburo Kaiba did require no friends, not even family. He surrounded himself with people that were of use to him, but they were all replaceable. Their livelihood depended on him, yet he himself was dependent on no one.
Seto quickly understood that it was this absolute self-reliance that made him invincible. There was no one who could betray him or abandon him. That was what true power had to be.
Yet Gozaburo had taken someone into his empty home now – a promising, ambitious boy that he had deemed worthy to craft after his own image.
Seto, his successor, who had the potential to rise above the others, to challenge his position, but who was not yet, not quite, his equal.
Naturally, that was the reason that Gozaburo disapproved of Seto's attachment to Mokuba. His attachment to his brother could easily be seen as a fatal weakness, yet Seto preferred to see it as a handicap that would not hold him back. He knew that meant he had to work harder to make certain that it wouldn’t be detrimental to him, and to prove himself to his father.
Mokuba understood little of these necessities - he was but a child in many ways -, but it was enough that Seto understood what had to be done.
There was no point in wasting time and resources on people below oneself, and Seto’s only way to prove himself was to make progress as fast as he could. That meant he could not waste too much time to play with Mokuba anymore, at least not for leisure, only for competition. But his brother, Seto had quickly come to realize, was no worthy opponent for him.
That was why Seto had his eyes always aimed higher - at the one person that Seto still had to look up to, the one gauge to measure himself with.
The one he was to succeed.
The one he needed to surpass.
Nothing mattered but that.
*
It was long past midnight as they drove home together, just the two of them in the back of the limousine. Despite the late hour, Seto paid careful attention that he didn’t show any sign of fatigue. He sat upright in his seat, his eyes fixed on the smouldering glint of his father’s cigar as Gozaburo talked, even though the movement of his gestures made him a little dizzy.
After the official part of the meeting, there had been dinner and ample opportunity to talk less formally and more productively. This, his father had told him once, was where the important decisions were made. Since then, Seto had always been eager to accompany him and tonight, for the first time, his wish was granted.
So Seto sat at his father’s side at the table, observing and listening intently. To his chagrin, he was mostly overlooked in the discussion, and whenever he was addressed, they merely humoured him with those patronizing smiles that Seto had come to resent more than anything.
To them, he was Seto, not Mr Kaiba.
Throughout the evening, Seto ate little, too busy not to miss a beat of the conversation, but he did not reject the sake that was offered to him. Of course, Seto had no intention to drink as overindulgently as the other men, but he would not back out and give them more opportunity for condescension. His age, he was determined to prove, was irrelevant. Seto refused to be treated like a child that had no place in their negotiations. What he might lack in leadership experience, Seto already had made up by hard work and intellect, and he was certain his abilities matched those of each business man at the table. He most certainly belonged here as much as any of them.
The smartest thing to do, Seto decided, was to pace himself just like his father. Gozaburo remained astonishingly sober all through the evening, preferring to lean back and take a long drag of his cigar when he was not voicing his opinions. Likewise, Seto only took a few sips of sake now and then, trying his best to accommodate to the unpleasant taste and the slight burning in his throat.
Yet the evening had dragged on, and Seto, who had been urged to empty his cup for a refill now at least twice already and could not afford to back out, had started to feel a strange sense of nausea coming over him. The warm, stale air was thick with smoke and his head had started to hurt, making it increasingly difficult to follow the agitated talk and catch all that was said and implied. Still, he tried his best to pull himself together.
When Gozaburo finally rose from his seat, Seto followed his cue a bit too eagerly, stumbling slightly as he got to his feet and the room started swaying around him.
To his relief the short walk to the limousine in the cool night breeze cleared his head a little, though he could not shake a strange queasiness altogether.
Determined to not let the alcohol interfere with his brain’s functionality, Seto had to try his hardest to follow his father’s words as he recapped the evening. This was for Seto’s benefit, after all, and he appreciated that Gozaburo took his time to draw his conclusions aloud.
No one but Seto was worth this investment of time and effort. He was exceptional in that regard, and that showed him more than anything that as a promising successor to his father’s name and company, he did matter.
Somehow, Seto had never seen that as clearly as in this moment, when it was just them sitting across each other in the back of the limousine, his father’s words the only thing cutting through his dulled mind.
It would always be just his father and him. This was the fate they had chosen for themselves. They were the sole corner points of each other’s lonely existence.
Crude, unformed questions were burning on his mind, but Seto had long learned not to ask for anything, especially not validation. He had to procure the answers himself.
“Father”, he said, steeling his voice to sound anything but uncertain, but there was a slight lilt he could not control as much as he’d liked. Seto cared little. He had to know.
Still, he did not feel apprehensive at all as he got up from his seat. He might have been lightheaded, though he blamed the car’s movement for his lack of balance, and his determination did not waver. Leaning over, he had to steady himself and his hand came to rest on his father’s arm. It was daring to touch him like this, informally and without permission, but if Seto wanted to show that he was not dependant on instruction, he had to swallow any sign of doubt. Apprehension had no room between equals, and if he couldn’t meet his father’s gaze, he had already lost.
There was something scrutinizing in Gozaburo’s eyes and Seto knew he should explain himself, but he did not know where to start.
Gozaburo had to see it, too. He had to understand.
Words stuck to his heavy tongue, but retreat was not an option. His pulse was thick and loud in his ears, and he was confident and nervous in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. The fabric of his father’s jacket was smooth beneath his fingers, and it was both daunting and thrilling to be on eye level like this.
Nothing mattered but them, Seto reminded himself. They had no one but each other.
Seto’s heart was beating up in his throat as he craned his neck slightly to make his move. His father’s moustache tickled on his upper lip as he pressed a forced, but chaste kiss on the older man’s mouth.
When there was no immediate reaction, Seto quickly broke the contact again, his semblance of confidence coming apart under his father’s gaze.
“Seto”, Gozaburo said, and even though he did not sound furious yet, there was something lurking in his tone. “What are you expecting to achieve here?”
The fact that Seto had no answer was telling enough. There had been no clear plan from the start, only a vague distinct need for a deeper meaning, for a connection. He had wanted to be understood without understanding himself. Seto’s throat was dry as he forced himself to meet his father’s gaze, waiting with bated breath for his brows to furrow and steeling himself for the consequences of faltering in such a crucial moment and displaying insecurity like this.
What he did not expect was his father’s hand on his neck, his fingers dry and coarse, and for a second, Seto was frozen as his brain tried to recall if Gozaburo had ever really touched him before.
They were not close.
There was little love lost between them, and they both did not expect any.
But right now, his father’s hand was foreign and warm on the nape of his neck, and Seto felt like his chest might cave in as his mind was reeling with too many things that he could not place.
“How many times do I have to tell you, Seto”, his father chided him, “you need to have absolute confidence in your actions.”
There was something decidedly mocking in his tone, but before Seto could defend himself or even consider retreating, Gozaburo’s mouth was on his again, and he was being kissed, unceremoniously and forcefully. To his embarrassment, Seto had completely failed to predict this and it rendered him unable react in any way other than tensing up. The kiss was short and firm, accompanied by a strong taste of alcohol and tobacco, and when his father let go of him, Seto did not know whether what he felt was a small triumph or just relief.
Then his father laughed, softly and cruelly, and Seto was mortified to feel his face heat up with shame and his stomach tightened painfully.
"Get back to your seat”, Gozaburo ordered him, curtly, “I was not finished."
And that was that. Seto awkwardly slid back into his seat, utterly defeated and suddenly completely unable to look his father in the eyes.
For the rest of their ride, Seto stayed silent, his gaze fixed on the street lights passing by and his heart pounding in his chest despite the creeping fatigue that threatened to overcome him again. His father poured himself a drink and continued his talk, but Seto was barely listening. He was too busy digging his fingers into the leather of his seat, determined to keep himself from wiping his mouth and to ignore the persistent prickling feeling of his father’s moustache on his upper lip.
Seto had to bite his tongue to swallow his frustration, blinking furiously to make sure he would not humiliate himself any further. The collar of his jacket felt too tight for comfort, but Seto remained unmoving in his seat, trying his best not to show how upset he was.
What bothered him most of all was how easily he had been affected by this, when it hadn’t affected his father at all.
Helpless anger rose within him, and Seto welcomed it as it washed over him. His hurt pride drowned out his own thoughts and shame together with his father's words, and all that was left was static.
*
Before Seto went to bed, he decided to at least rectify his childish mistake of thinking that drinking with adults would somehow make him an equal in their eyes. The least he could do was to get as much as he could out of his system and ensure he would be ready for his lessons in the morning, so he locked himself into his bathroom and made himself puke until his throat burned and he was only retching dryly.
Even after vomiting and thoroughly brushing his teeth, the taste of his father’s cigars and a light hint of alcohol seemed to stick to the back of his tongue.
When he turned away from the mirror, Seto’s hand traveled to the back of his neck almost automatically, as if trying to recall the warmth of another hand, half-wishing it would have lingered, too. But his own fingers were cold from clutching the toilet seat and hesitant in their touch, and all that had stayed with him was a distinct feeling of absence. His anger had faded and left nothing in its place, and it felt as if this void had been carved out so thoroughly that Seto thought his chest should be sinking inside itself.
Unconsciously, his fingers wandered to his throat, pressing slightly into the skin to get rid of the constricting feeling against his Adam's apple. It had been a while since he’d last had been this aware of it.
As Seto lay in bed, the large, darkening room around him was too silent and his own, quiet breathing too loud, and sleep would not come. He did not have space of mind to recite vocabulary or formulae. Instead, his thoughts were racing.
As long as Seto was one step behind, his father would command all of his attention and determine his every move. But Seto would prove himself, he would rise above him, and then this man would be nothing but a stepping stone on Seto’s way to the top.
Seto repeated it like a mantra, again and again, until he finally sank into dreamless sleep.
Once I have surpassed you, I will require no one, too.
Once I have surpassed you, I will be invincible.
Once I have surpassed you, I will be free.