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Seto was irritated.
Not at anything in particular—at everything. At a missed projection that should have been airtight. At a developer who had misunderstood a directive so basic it bordered on incompetence. At the fact that the sun had vanished before five and taken his patience with it.
Then his phone rang.
He stared at the screen, jaw tightening. An unfamiliar number glowed there, intrusive, presumptuous. He considered letting it ring out. Considered the small satisfaction of silence.
His thumb hovered a few seconds longer before he finally answered.
“Kaiba,” he said, clipped, sharp enough to cut off pleasantries before they could form.
There was a pause. A breath drawn, careful and measured.
“Kaiba... It’s Atem.”
The name struck deeper than Seto expected. Six months collapsed into a single sentence. Six months of knowing Atem was alive somewhere in the same city and not hearing a damn word.
Seto leaned back in his chair, his focus drifting to the darkened floor to ceiling windows of his office. Winter pressed its face against the glass as the city was swallowed by night.
He let his eyes slip shut, and all at once he was standing in a place that felt eternal in a way the living world never did. Atem was there—solid, whole, draped in white and adorned with gold.
The yearning between them had been undeniable. Not spoken, not named—but present all the same. In that moment he knew, with terrifying clarity, that there was no moving on from Atem. He had felt it like a taste at the back of his tongue. That the tension between them was more than rivalry. More than friendship.
“Come back with me.”
The words left his mouth before logic could stop them.
“I can’t.”
“Can't?” Seto said with a contemplative tone. “There was a time when I thought there were a lot of things you couldn’t do. And every time, you proved me wrong.”
A pause that followed.
“How old were you when you died?” he pressed.
“Sixteen.”
“Sixteen,” Seto repeated. “Sixteen years. That's all you got. And now you’re just… done? That was enough for you?”
“That’s not up to me.”
“It is,” Seto had insisted. “You’re making the choice right now. You have the power to write your own story, and you're choosing to let it end. Come back with me.”
And Atem had.
Seto swallowed hard.
Atem was alive because Seto had refused to accept inevitability. Because he had bent reality until it broke. Because he had not—could not—let go.
And if Seto had thought that meant something afterward, that it would translate into closeness, into continuity—
He’d been wrong.
He’d given Atem his number. Offered it without comment, without condition.
And this was the first time Atem even bothered to use it.
“What do you want?” Seto asked, because it was easier than acknowledging the broken heat curling in his chest.
Another pause.
“I was calling to invite you to… something,” Atem said trailing off. Someone yelled something in the background “Right—Christmas! It's a gathering for friends.”
Seto pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t do gatherings.”
“Yes,” Atem said, faintly dry. “I remember. But Yugi said it was about spending time with the people that matter. I just thought… They’re playing some game. You might enjoy it.”
“A game,” Seto repeated, interest piqued despite himself.
“Yes. Something about an albino elephant. I didn’t completely understand, but I'm sure they'll explain it better at the party.”
“A white elephant exchange,” Seto said disappointed. “That hardly qualifies as a game. Certainly not one I have any interest in.”
“Well, if you can make it—”
“I can’t,” he cut in.
“I didn’t tell you what day it is.”
“It's Christmas,” Seto pointed out bluntly. “It's the same day every year.”
“Oh.”
“This is one of the busiest seasons for my company,” Seto said. “I have to go out of my way to make time for anything, and this hardly warrants the effort.”
Atem exhaled, slow and deliberate.
“I see,” he said. The irritation was subtle, tucked beneath politeness, but it was there. “Well. Thank you for answering, then.”
The line went dead.
Seto stared at his phone as if it had personally betrayed him.
“Who was that?” Mokuba asked from the couch, where he had very clearly been listening the entire time.
Seto scoffed. “Atem.”
He saved the number before he could stop himself. He didn’t know why. It didn’t matter—he didn’t expect Atem to call again anyway.
Mokuba blinked. “Oh.”
“That was his idea of reaching out,” Seto continued, his fingers tightening against the edge of his desk. “Six months, Mokuba. Six. And this is the first time he bothers to call.”
“What did he want?”
“To drag me to a Christmas party with his band of idiots. Probably didn't want to suffer through it alone, so he's trying to drag me into it. Like I owe him something—like we’re friends.”
“Are you?” Mokuba asked quietly.
Seto stopped short. “If we were, he would’ve called sooner.”
“Have you reached out to him?”
I've done enough reaching for a lifetime. He bit back the caustic worlds. They were far too revealing.
“I gave him my number. I didn't have his until now.”
Seto turned away, dragging his attention back to his spreadsheet, rearranging columns that didn’t need rearranging.
“Nii-sama,” Mokuba said after a moment, “maybe that was him reaching out. Besides it might be fun," he said, sounding wistful.
Seto laughed, sharp and hollow. “I might tolerate spending time with him if he bothered to ask me. But I’m not suffering through a whole night with that entire group. That’s hardly my idea of entertainment.” He exhaled through his nose, gaze fixed anywhere but Mokuba. “Besides, it’s probably for the best. I wouldn’t know how to be friends anyways.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know how to do it either,” Mokuba ventured. “Being friends. And you just shut down his first attempt.”
Seto didn’t answer.
He told himself the tightness in his chest was irritation. He told himself the bitterness was justified. He told himself Mokuba was wrong.
But his office suddenly felt several degrees colder and far too quiet.
The days that followed blurred together, short and gray, the kind of winter days that felt unfinished, as if the sun itself were tired of trying. Morning came late. Evening arrived early. Seto watched the light retreat from his office windows a little sooner each day, and told himself it was just seasonal inefficiency—less light, lower productivity. A biological inconvenience. Easily corrected with longer hours and sharper focus.
It didn’t work.
The numbers refused to hold his attention. Meetings dragged. Lines of code and columns of data swam together. More than once, he caught himself staring at his phone without realizing how it had ended up in his hand.
His thoughts kept straying.
To Atem. To the party he’d been invited to and rejected. To the quiet, belated bitterness of realizing that the invitation itself had mattered more than he’d allowed himself to feel at the time.
Christmas.
The word surfaced unbidden, stubborn as the lights strung across the city streets. It felt absurd. He’d never celebrated it—not as a child, not later. No trees. No gifts. No gatherings. American holidays had never found much footing in his life, Christmas least of all. A holiday for couples and friends. For people who belonged easily to one another with no uncertainty.
He had decided long ago that he didn’t need those things.
So why did they ache now, like phantom limbs?
Seto sighed.
His office felt larger than usual. Too quiet. Too empty. He stared out at the streets below and, finally, reluctantly admitted the truth.
He was lonely.
The word tasted foreign. Weak. He hated it.
And still the bitter sting of icy isolation clutched at his heart.
He thought of Mokuba, watching him. Learning from him. Absorbing his silences, his distance, the careful walls he built around himself. Seto had once sworn—quietly, almost violently—that Mokuba would never grow up the way he had. Alone. Guarded. Miserable.
It was a conviction he’d made without ever examining how to keep it. A promise without a plan. And now the truth pressed down on him: he was teaching his brother this life. Modeling it. Forcing Mokuba, without intention, to follow the same lonely pattern.
He picked up the phone. Atem answered on the second ring.
“Kaiba?”
“It looks like I won’t be as busy as I thought that day,” Seto said, stiff, carefully neutral.
There it was. Not an apology. Not quite an olive branch. But something.
“Is that so,” Atem said in that cocky little way of his. Despite the patronizing tone, warmth bled through the line like sunlight breaking a gray dawn.
“What do I need to bring?”
“A gift,” Atem said smoothly. “For the Albino Elephant game.”
A gift.
Seto’s mind immediately flicked to the last white elephant exchange he had witnessed—winter in Los Angeles, overseeing the launch of American Kaiba Land with Mokuba. The event was supposed to be a bit of fun, about exchanging small presents among colleagues and friends. In reality, it had been a display of performative wealth and petty competition.
The gifts were meant to be anonymous, but no one had respected that. Each unwrapping was accompanied by a cough, a clearing of the throat, a pointed glance, and the inevitable brag: “Ah, a first-edition. Worth thirty thousand.” “Limited-run, only two hundred made worldwide.”
The room buzzed with faked delight, rehearsed surprise, and the constant, exhausting jockeying for attention.
Until the grand prize was revealed halfway through the game.
A brand new black Aston Martin DBS Superleggera. The moment the keys to the car were revealed, the entire atmosphere changed. Eyes widened. Smiles sharpened into competitive smirks. Suddenly, the petty brags and hollow applause vanished. Greed and obsession replaced them. It was infuriatingly predictable: the people who had spent the previous hour feigning indifference now drooled and schemed.
A sudden bitter taste found its way to Seto's mouth. Were Yugi and his friends just inviting him so he could supply a fancy gift to fight over?
“Fine,” he said, voice clipped.
“There’s a ¥4,500 limit,” Atem added.
Seto rolled his eyes. A limit. Like he'd go anywhere near it.
“Understood,” he said.
“Excellent!” Atem said in that same tone, something between smug and pleased. “Then I’ll see you there.”
The call ended.
Seto lowered the phone, letting it rest on the desk as silence reclaimed the office.
He rested his hands on the edge of the desk, staring down at them as if they belonged to someone else. Hands that he once used to form his empire now trembled at the thought of the night ahead: the laughter he’d struggle to join, the warmth he wouldn’t touch, the social spark that would slip through his fingers.
He imagined the party bright and cheerful, for everyone but him. He'd slink to the sidelines, watching, waiting out the night. Silently wishing he could belong there when he knew he never would. He scoffed, about to dial his secretary to pick up a gift, so he could participate in what could barely be called a game.
Was it a game? If so, what was winning?
The rules were simple: get the best gift, steal what you wanted, provoke envy, watch the petty scramble. He could play that hand with ease. He could bring the most expensive, the most glittering, the most ostentatious things in the room. It didn't really matter what he went home with. He could buy them all a hundred times over, pile them at his feet, and not feel the faintest stir of satisfaction. That was not winning. Not really. Not for him.
Winning—true winning—would be bringing a gift Atem would want, would cherish. World flight and steal for.
Then, like a spark striking flint, the idea struck him. Mokuba would come too. Of course we would. They could have two gifts. Two chances. And in that simple arrangement lay a kind of cruel elegance: Atem could pick the flashy, desirable one—or would he see past it to the quieter, deliberate choice? The choice that meant something. That carried weight. That said, without words, I see you. I choose you. The game, Seto realized, could be his and Atem’s alone. To win or lose, entirely at Atem’s discretion.
The game shop was alive with warmth and light, a sharp contrast to the bleak winter streets outside. The smell of fried chicken mingled with an eclectic assortment of snacks: individually wrapped onigiri, mini okonomiyaki, bowls of edamame, and a few sweet treats in colorful packaging. Gifts were stacked haphazardly on a corner table.
Seto’s gaze swept over the room with measured detachment, cataloging faces, noting the forming cliques, the half-hearted smiles. He moved to the counter, where a small selection of drinks waited. He grabbed a bottle of chuhai—cheap, peach-flavored—and drank. The burn was welcome. By the time he finished it and poured himself another, a subtle looseness had begun to edge into his shoulders.
Mokuba stood beside him, arms crossed, surveying the room as if it were a battlefield. Until Anzu appeared, bright and cheerful. She grabbed Mokuba’s arm, tugging him gently, and pulled him into conversation with Yugi and the others. Before long he was smiling and laughing too.
Good.
Seto stayed on the periphery, sipping slowly, observing, allowing himself to remain a shadow on the edge of the party. Then his eyes met Atem's from across the room, and for a moment the chatter and laughter faded into background noise.
Atem was moving towards him.
“You made it,” he said, voice low, maybe a little too warm as he slipped his own drink. “Thanks for coming. I had been meaning to reach out for a while”
“Then why didn’t you?” Seto asked, voice clipped, carrying the edge of accusation.
“Maybe I was afraid you’d blow me off,” Atem admitted, his thumb tracing the rim of his glass. “And… I was right. When I finally reached out, you did.”
Seto swallowed. “I told you, it's a busy time for me. But I'm here, aren't I?”
Atem took another careful sip from his glass. “Yes. And I'm glad you're here,” he murmured.
They stood in silence for a beat, letting the party swirl around them. The crowd moved, laughter and conversation drifting in waves, but they were in their own orbit. The warmth of the chuhai softened Seto’s posture; Atem’s presence brought a flush of something unnameable, a mixture of irritation, relief, and longing. Questions buzzed around his head like gnats.
Why are you standing beside me?
What aren't you with your friends?
Are you as lonely as I am?
Seto could never say them out loud, but there had to be a reason Atem invited him. There had to be a reason he abandoned his party and found himself on the periphery with him.
“Why do you always hang out on the sidelines?” Atem asked, as if sensing his thoughts, leaning just slightly closer.
“Sometimes I like to watch chaos unfold without getting my hands dirty,” Seto replied, and he felt the corner of his mouth twitch. “But I don't mind the occasional company. It’s… tolerable when it’s you.”
Atem smirked, the flush on his cheeks betraying his own tipsy looseness. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
For the first time in a long time, Seto allowed himself to relax, to laugh quietly, and to enjoy the simplicity of a shared drink with someone who—to use Atem's word—mattered. The food, the gifts, the rest of the party, it could all fall away. Being right here was all he wanted.
“When’s the white elephant starting?” a loud, obnoxious voice bellowed from across the room.
Jonouchi.
Seto’s shoulders tensed back up.
“We can start now!” came Yugi’s voice, bright and eager. “Everyone, gather around!”
Chairs scraped. Someone nearly knocked over a drink. Helpers—self-appointed and underqualified—dragged the pile of gifts onto a flimsy card table in the center of the room. Seto cataloged the pile at a glance. A few boxes wrapped with meticulous care: crisp folds and deliberate ribbon placement. The rest ranged from rushed to careless. One bag had been crumpled and crushed, clearly reused more times than dignity allowed, its inappropriate HAPPY BIRTHDAY message wrinkled nearly beyond recognition.
“Okay!” Yugi continued. “Rules are simple. Draw numbers. On your turn, you either open a new gift or steal one that’s already been opened. Each gift can only be stolen once per round.”
A small jar with torn pieces of paper in it was passed around the group until it was shoved toward Seto. He drew a slip of paper.
13
He blinked, then counted the room.
Thirteen people.
Last turn. Maximum leverage. Statistically optimal.
Lucky number thirteen.
Seto allowed himself a thin, private smile. There was no such thing as luck, but it seemed probability was finally aligning with competence.
“Alright,” Yugi said, clapping his hands. “Who’s number one?”
“I am,” Atem said.
Seto’s smile vanished.
No.
That wasn’t—this wasn’t correct. Atem wasn’t supposed to open anything. He was supposed to choose. To react. To reveal preference under pressure.
Atem stepped forward and reached for the largest bag. The unfortunate Happy Birthday bag. It was certainly the most distinct gift in the pile.
“Oh man,” Jonouchi muttered loudly. “You’re gonna love that.”
“Way to stay anonymous, Jou,” Honda laughed.
Atem pulled out a handwritten tag and read aloud, brow furrowing.
“Everything You Never Knew You Needed.
For sustenance.
For motivation.
For strength.
For your… BALLS.”
Seto closed his eyes, brow wrinkling with irritation.
“Okay,” Anzu prompted, already bracing herself. “What’s inside?”
Atem rummaged. “Uh. Half a case of ramen. Three energy drinks. A mug with a crack in it. Half a bag of Halloween candy…” He paused, lifting a small metal object, turning it over. “And… I don’t know what this is.”
“It’s a melon baller,” Bakura said helpfully.
“Never been used!” Jonouchi added, proudly.
“I’ve never balled a melon,” Atem said slowly.
Seto felt something cold and final drop into his stomach.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Not only had Atem gone first—he’d gotten the worst gift in the room. No one would steal it. Seto was certain of that. He certainly couldn’t touch it without drawing suspicion.
He scoffed softly and took another drink.
The game moved forward in a blur of noise and bad decisions.
A toiletry bag filled with used makeup—Mai’s apparently.
A pack of Duel Monsters themed tarot cards with aggressively gothic stylized art.
Yugi unwrapped a small Dark Magician Girl figurine in a skimpy Santa outfit and held it up with genuine delight.
Seto stared.
That was his gift. He would stake a hostile takeover on it.
“Cute!” Yugi said happily.
It was not cute. It was a crime.
On her turn Anzu unwrapped a book: How to Find Love. Honda stole it immediately. Anzu didn’t object. If anything she looked relieved when she pulled a blanket and fuzzy socks instead. Seto supposed they were statistically more reliable for warmth and comfort than gambling on love.
Seto’s eyes traveled from gift to gift, calculating, cataloging each one, each price flashing in his mind.
And then it hit him.
The limit.
¥4,500.
It wasn’t a lower limit, it was the ceiling.
His stomach twisted. Even his humble gift, the one chosen specifically for Atem, was technically above the limit.
Seto’s hand tightened around his drink. The warmth of the chuhai no longer comforted him; it only sharpened the dread coiling in his chest. He’d been given one rule, and he'd already violated it.
Oh well.
Bakura was up next. He reached forward and grabbed the small box.
Seto straightened.
Bakura opened it. “It’s… a pen.”
Read the inscription, you idiot. It's meaningless without the inscription!
“Who the hell brought that?” Jonouchi scoffed.
“Says the man who literally wrapped trash from his kitchen,” Otogi shot back.
“Hey! My gift was thoughtful!”
“It really wasn’t.”
Yugi clapped his hands again. “Okay! Who’s next? Number nine?”
“Me!” Jounouchi crowed, grabbing another small box.
He opened it.
“Holy—shit,” Jounouchi breathed. He lifted the contents higher, eyes wide. “It’s two tickets to Los Angeles. And an all-inclusive stay at Kaiba Land’s themed hotel.”
The room exploded in a frenzy of whispers.
“No way.”
“Are you serious?”
“Three guesses who that’s from—”
“What happened to the ¥4,500 limit?” someone demanded.
Jonouchi snorted. “Please. It’s Kaiba. Rules are more like… suggestions to him.”
“What are you complaining about?” Anzu shot back. “You’re the one holding the tickets.”
“Yeah, for the next thirty seconds,” Jounouchi snapped. “Then they’ll be gone. Rich boy just had to come in and nuke the game.”
“—Says the man who literally wrapped garbage from his kitchen,” Otogi muttered, for some reason still nursing that grievance like a personal vendetta. Seto got the feeling he'd been the victim of one of Jou's gifts in the past.
“Hey!” Mokuba piped up, bristling. “Seto wasn’t trying to ruin anything! That’s my gift. And I didn’t know there was a limit!”
There was a beat.
“Oh,” Jonouchi said, deflating slightly. “Well. Still...”
Honda clapped his hands together, ever the peacemaker. “Okay, okay, it’s just a game, guys. Let’s keep it moving. Who’s next?”
Mai didn’t hesitate. “Me.” She stood, already smiling. “And I’m obviously taking the tickets.”
That led to a chain of stealing, of noise—overlapping protests and mock outrage ricocheting off every surface. Gifts traded laps. Laughter clashed with groans.
Seto barely registered any of it.
His gaze was locked on the untouched pen.
Abandoned. Ignored. Sitting there like a discarded pawn among cheap novelty items, impulse buys, and flashy trash.
How could he make Atem see it? How could he make him choose it?
Stealing Atem’s tragedy of a gift for himself would be too obvious, too desperate. And he didn’t think even these fools could be manipulated into taking Jou’s rejects. And even if Seto took it for himself—dignity be damned—would Atem get it? Would he see the inscription? Would he remember what it meant?
Seto leaned back, defeat seeping into his chest.
Mokuba caught his eye across the room and subtly flashed his phone.
Seto fished his own phone from his pocket
Seto: What number did you draw?
It buzzed in his palm.
Mokuba: 12
The game lurched onward, relentless and unforgiving.
“My turn,” Otogi said, voice cutting across the room. “Tickets, please.”
“Ugh, fine,” Mai muttered, surrendering the prize with a dramatic sigh.
She began walking the room, scanning every gift with exaggerated scrutiny. “No offense, but your gifts are all terrible. I might actually steal the pen.”
Bakura leaned forward with a cheesy, unsure smile “It’s a really nice pen! Even engraved.”
“What does it say? I'm lame, so I bought this pen?” Jonouchi snarked.
“No, it says: You have the power to write your own story.”
Atem’s eyes lifted, sharp and alert.
“Inspiring really,” Bakura continued, clearly not attached to the item and angling for a chance to steal.
Mai claimed the pen, and pandemonium erupted once again. Every gift had circulated at least once—except Atem’s.
After another round, most of the gifts had scuttled back to their original owners. Everyone looked frazzled, red-faced, and exhausted—everyone except Seto, who felt the thrill of a plan unfolding. Mokuba was next.
Take anything you want, he texted his brother. I’ll steal it next round. Then I want you to target Atem.
Everything hinged on timing and subtlety. At least it wouldn't look nearly as suspicious if Mokuba stole Atem's gift, and whatever Mokuba claimed on his turn would be far less embarrassing for Seto to steal.
“I want Mai’s make-up bag,” his brother announced with unexpected decisiveness.
Goddamn it, Mokuba.
Seto pinched the bridge of his nose, already calculating the oncoming headache.
“That’s disgusting,” Anzu wrinkled her nose, her judgment hanging in the air like a stink cloud. “That can't be hygienic.”
“Hey! That’s quality shit,” Mai protested, mock indignation in her tone. “I’m shocked you didn’t snatch it yourself. You could use an eyeshadow palette that didn't come from Sugi Drug.”
Seto’s gaze narrowed. “Last round. Give me the makeup,” he said, voice clipped, frowning at Mokuba as though disciplining a particularly foolish pawn.
“Didn’t think you were into that, Kaiba,” Jounouchi said with a smirk, clearly enjoying the mental gymnastics at the table.
“I’m not letting my brother hoard Mai’s used makeup,” Seto muttered under his breath.
Mokuba played his part perfectly and frowned theatrically, scanning the remaining gifts as though making a life-or-death decision. For a moment even Seto thought his brother might go rogue and pick whatever he wanted.
Then, with a small, sly smile he says, “Gimme the Halloween candy.”
Atem passed over the crumpled bag without hesitation.
Seto held his breath.
This was it.
Then Yugi leaned forward eagerly. “Take the tickets!” he urged, drawing Atem's attention.
Atem's gaze flicked—from the tickets, to the pen.
From Yugi—
To Seto.
The room faded. The noise dulled. Seto felt his heart drop, sharp and sudden.
He knew exactly where he ranked in that lineup.
Atem held his gaze, and for just a moment the rest of the room fell away.
“I want the pen.”
“Yess!!” Mai declared “tickets please!” She said snapping them back from Otogi.
“Hey! What's the deal Atem!” Jou said, nudging his side. “Those could've been yours! You could've taken me.”
“Sorry Jou,” Atem said, looking uncharacteristically sheepish under the room's scrutiny.
After the last round of stealing wrapped up, everyone broke off into groups again, the chaos finally bleeding out into a low hum of conversation. Seto stayed seated, watching Atem carefully. Every small movement drew his attention: the way Atem held the pen, turning it over in his hand, the faint crease in his brow, the subtle way his lips parted as if he were tasting a thought aloud.
Seto’s chest tightened when Atem’s gaze finally found him.
Atem tilted his head, a small, slow smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He leaned slightly closer, and for a heartbeat, Seto’s mind went blank.
“Kaiba,” Atem said gently, almost teasing as he slumped into the chair beside him. “I understand.”
Seto’s heart threatened to leap from his chest, a mixture of terror and elation. “Understand what?” he asked.
“This,” Atem said, tapping the pen lightly.
Seto waited for him to elaborate but the silence lapsed between them as the words stayed unspoken.
“You always have to control everything, don't you?” Atem asked, but it wasn't a question. “Have you ever considered that sometimes the best choice is the one you don’t force?”
Seto’s lips twitched. A laugh escaped him. “Are you lecturing me on the ethics of a white elephant exchange?”
Atem’s smile widened, warm and genuine, and Seto realized, with a strange, dizzying clarity, that, despite Atem's accusation, he didn’t want to control this moment. Not entirely.
“Well, I didn't think I would have to, but here we are.”
Seto leaned forward slightly. “Then tell me,” he said quietly. “What do you understand?” Seto’s pulse thundered in his ears at the weight of his own words.
Atem’s eyes met his: steady, luminous, unflinching. For a heartbeat, time slowed. Then his smile widened, and something inside Seto unspooled.
“In A’aru you told me I had the power to write my own story. When I write the end of my story…” Atem said softly, setting the pen gently between them, “I want you in it.”
Seto let himself laugh—a short, incredulous bark of relief. And then he exhaled as if he’d been holding his breath for years.