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The walls dripped with perfumed water, tiny streams ran down the walls of a porcelain bathtub. There was the quiet hum of the radio, orchestrated music that sounded like winter. Atem had left for the week, he was visiting Yugi.
He had asked if Seto wanted to join.
“I have meetings all week,” he lied.
It wasn’t that he disliked any of his past acquaintances, he just irrationally hated watching them talk amongst themselves. The connection Atem shared with them was so loud. So bright, and full of life. Seto was silent, they were content with the unspoken words that clung to their fingertips when they brushed skin. When they conversed, it was full of meaning, every sound was medicine that no amount of currency could buy.
It hurt to see Atem so energetic. Maybe there was some part of himself that was wrong, a broken relationship with a glaring canyon where something was supposed to be. Something missing, something that Yugi could provide.
But he knew Atem loved him, he had said so, and so it was the truth.
The house was full of recycled air, the heaters in the rooms filling dusty corners with the warmth that made up for the emptiness that only human contact could provide. But Seto appreciated the silence, bathed in it. The water was warm enough to turn his skin a fleshy pink, still enough to pass for ice.
Seto closed his eyes. Thought of his voice, counted the extra seconds that filling the bathtub required without another body present.
Seto leaned his head back, a towel cushioning his skull from the tiled wall. Atem’s back was against him, hair dampened and irritating on Seto’s chest. But he didn’t mind. Atem was holding his hand, had the palm faced upwards, used his thumbs to brush over the tiny lines in his skin.
“You have nice hands.” Atem bent slender fingers downwards, touched his fingernails. “And nice fingers. And nails.”
Seto responded with a hum, his eyes shut. Nearly sleeping. His feet slid on the porcelain, tiny waves in the water. His legs were too long, his knees were cold, air tickling the thin space between tendons and bone. He smiled, fitted his feet under Atem’s thighs, lifted his legs. Atem’s body slid underwater, feet sticking up and arms struggling to grasp for porcelain ledges. He settled on digging nails in Seto’s torso behind him, immediately readjusting himself back above water, and into Seto’s lap.
“You fucker,” Atem challenged, fingers sliding to the spaces between Seto’s hips and his ribs, fingers moving suddenly. Seto’s one major disadvantage, he was ticklish.
A sudden burst of laughter before long legs curled up to his chest, hands pushing the attacker away, legs pushing further until Atem was sitting across from him, fingers still outstretched and lashing forward. He was pinned, but he still tried.
And Seto laughed. Not because he was ticklish, he was happy.
The radio made up for the absence of tiny noises, shifts in positions, the sound of another body breathing. It used to be comforting knowing the only sounds he heard were his own, it was only a reminder of how much he hated his lack of ambition to see humans that weren’t him. There was a small waterproof touchpad within arm’s reach of the tub, built into the wall. He dragged his finger on it, the soft piano music filled the spaces that steam couldn’t. He sighed, leaned back. His mind wandered, he thought of Atem. The past three years. New Years. His life before. How fortunate he was for the present, the daily patterns that would continue in the next few days when Atem returned with souvenirs and stories.
He saw the backs of his eyelids, his ears heard soft melodies. The sound of the door opening. He would’ve jumped, but he didn’t. He felt blessed, thanked the Gods that Atem was miles away. He remained in the tub. Music accompanying the sound of footsteps.
Seto spoke first, eyes still closed.
“Did you wander into the wrong house?”
The voice that spoke was unfamiliar, but the malice in it was something he had heard so many times.
“No, Seto Kaiba. Get up.”
Seto finally opened his eyes, blue irises shrouded by eyelashes. “Why?” His mind was elsewhere, he knew that Atem would get the news before he attempted to come home, they had talked about this in the past. How to hide himself, where to run to. He was to stay with Yugi.
“Funny how these things work out,” he muttered to himself.
“Get up,” the man spoke.
The voice was practiced, Seto could tell. The man knew how much money he was worth, the heavy mass of resentment and hatred that his father burdened him with.
“You’re not going to let me live, I’d like to die in the comfort of this bathroom.”
“You’re right. Get up.”
Seto took a good look at him.
The other man spoke.
“I’ve lost good friends because of you.”
“Because of my father,” Seto interjected.
“No, don’t forget that you were a monster just like him. You’ve killed lots of people.”
Kaiba shrugged. His heart hurt. “You’re right. Killing me won’t make you God.”
“I respect what you’ve done, what you’ve created on your own. But I still hate you, Kaiba. You accept death as plainly as I would. People like us shouldn’t live.”
Kaiba stretched his back. “Why not off yourself, then?”
“I’ll live with guilt until I’m as lucky as you.”
Kaiba sat up.
“So this is luck, then?” Kaiba stared at nothing. “I figured luck would mean I get to live out a peaceful life.”
“Luck couldn’t grant you that Kaiba, you’re simply undeserving.” The man had been holding a gun since he walked in, Kaiba ignored it. “Get up.”
And Kaiba did, skin soft with moisture, cells thick with water. He could break with a scratch, he knew. He wanted to erase Atem from his mind. He would be the only reason he screamed out, tried to fight this man. But he held no weapons, carried nothing but soft fingernails.
He wanted Atem to be safe. Be able to collect his belongings. Maybe he would fall in love with Yugi and he wouldn’t cry when he learned he was dead. And he was sad, wished he could feel his skin. Remember what his thumb felt like on his lips, let that be his afterlife.
Mokuba would cry, but he was away on a trip to a remote area helping famished families. He would be the last to learn. But just like Atem, he knew this was always a possibility. Knew the procedure.
“Stand against the wall.” The faceless man pointed the gun at him, motioned to the corner of the bathroom, soft carpet and plain textures.
Kaiba knew his obedience would be beneficial, the faceless man would be the only one to remember this scene. He would die too inevitably. Kaiba let him feel alive.
His naked feet left wet footprints, strands of hair stuck to his back. To his neck. And he was suddenly aware that his body would soon cease producing blood, his fingers wouldn’t move. He wouldn’t read anymore, tip that one waitress with crooked teeth way too much at Atem’s favorite café. He thought of the fine print in his will, the details in documents that outlined how KaibaCorp would continue if Seto was deceased.
He walked to the corner, trapped steam between the wall and his back. He looked at the man. His face was void, serious.
“I hope the rest of your week goes well,” Kaiba flatted.
“Sorry.”
In the last shred of consciousness, Kaiba heard himself breathe in a little too fast. He found himself surprised that the man was serious, surprised that his life was really shattering so quick.
He didn't want to die.
The sharp noise filled the room, blood creating tiny trails and abstract designs around Kaiba’s head. His naked body slid downwards, soft hair trailing behind like a paintbrush, coloring the walls with maroon. He didn’t have a second chance to rethink, a chance to beg. Slumped against the corner, eyes unfocused, gazing lazily in the direction of the faceless man’s foot.
And he looked as complacent in death as he did in life.
The man took steps forward, set the gun in Kaiba’s hand. The gun was clean, null of fingerprints until soft pale fingers rested gently against it.
He turned towards the bathroom door, stopped at the frame. Stared at the empty bed in the other room, the photographs that sat on the nightstand. Another man in the photos. Souvenirs. Meaningless objects. He turned around, fingers reaching back for the gun. He took it from a still hand, peeled off a glove from his own. He pressed his fingertips to the handle, left as many prints as he could. Set the gun on the floor in front of Kaiba’s foot. Took one last glance at him.
Only for a moment, considered using the gun on himself when he saw an intricate ring on Kaiba’s other hand, barely seen as it rested near his side. Red trailed down his body, reminded him of water and porcelain. He turned, left the bathroom. Touched everything.
Left the house, it was snowing. Quiet in the backroads.
The man spoke to the house, to the only lighted window.
“You were lucky, Kaiba. So was I. But you took that from me years ago. So what was truly worth being called unfair?”
And he left, the air was thick in a world with no resolution.