A thought and a Fic.
1: Thought:
I feel as if, on some fundamental level, Yu-Gi-Oh and Fight Club fit somehow. Just been watching it and thinking... yeah... Yami = Tyler Durman. Which, you know, is just wrong.
2: Fic.
Wrote this today. Had it brewing for a while now. A slightly rough draftt but it'll do. If I was at grans I'd leave it for a bit but I'm on my mum's comp so... putting it up here, partly for storage purpose. But if you like it, please leave a comment.
Title: Seven Times Seto cried, and once when he didn't.
Rating: PG:13
Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh isn't mine, ect
Summery: Read the title, bozo.
Seto is one and screaming his little lungs out. His bum is wet and his stomach is empty and he is cold. He announces this to the world with hearty wails. His mother picks him up and silences his shrieks as lips that will some day order an attack from the Blue Eyes White Dragon fasten round her tit and suck happily.
Seto is five and he is huddled under a table and weeping, terrified beyond anything else. His father is crying too, down on his knees and wailing and that’s what scares Seto. Daddies aren’t supposed to cry. Of all the people in the world, daddies aren’t supposed to cry! There is another wail in the air too, the shriek of a new born. It seems as if the entire world is filled with tears and, falling back into old habits, Seto starts to yell for his mommy.
But his mommy will never come.
Seto is seven and crying into his father’s trousers because Mokie threw some of his Duel Monsters Cards into the bath. His father pats him on the shoulder awkwardly but he doesn’t help much. Daddies aren’t as good at stopping tears as mommies.
But he puts Seto on his lap and tells him that he will buy him new cards and that he mustn’t yell at his little brother and he mustn’t cry. Because he is seven and a big boy now, and big boys shouldn’t cry.
Seto is eight and trying to hold back his tears as his father’s funeral. He doesn’t succeed and they drip silently down red cheeks. His shoulders shake with sobs, seeming to reverberate up, (or is it down?) though his little brother who’s hand he holds and who is wailing openly.
Later he will cry again as he ask his relatives what is to become of him and Mokie. They will say that they cannot (will not) keep them, that they must go to an orphanage. Between his rage filled tears Seto tells them he will never, ever forgive them this.
Seto is nine and hiccupping with pain as blood drips down his knee. The older boy laughs at him and joins his friends in kicking down the sand-castle he and Mokuba built.
‘Nii-san,’ squeaks Mokuba, running over to Seto, fear in his wide eyes. Seto takes a deep breath and wipes away the tears quickly. He’s supposed to look after Mokuba now, supposed to be Mokuba’s daddy, and daddies shouldn’t cry.
‘Come on, Mokie,’ he says, making himself smile, ‘let’s leave these jerks alone. Sand-castles are stupid, anyway.’
Seto is ten and alone just outside his room, sobbing with joy. He is waiting for Mokuba to finish packing and he is glad his brother cannot see the silent, happy tears trickling down his face. He has beaten Gozaburo Kaiba at his own game. Today he and Mokie leaves the orphanage at last. To day things are finally looking up.
That’s worth a few tears.
Seto is eleven and he won’t let Gozaboro see him snivel as the belt comes down again and pain lances through his body. He won’t cry though.
To cry would let Gozaburo know that he has won again. He cannot give that bastard another victory.
Big boys shouldn’t cry. Daddies don’t cry. And Kaibas in training certainly never, never cry.
Now that is all three and he vows this will be the last time.
The last time he will allow the world to see his shame, his helplessness, his ultimate weakness.
Seto’s tears lasted one year longer than his smile.
He is older now, solemn and silent at the funeral. It is a dull, grey day, rain is a promise in the clouds yet to be delivered. Which is a shame because the raindrops would excuse the tears, or the lack of them.
The pain is an empty ball in his chest. A black ooze that creeps its way down the cheeks of every mourner but his and it separate him from them the way death never could.
They look at him and wait for the tears, wonder why they won’t come. Now of all times, why he will not cry.
It is not a matter of will; that is long broken. This is cannot. He cannot cry.
Gozabouro once told him… only losers cry.
But now… now he has lost.
And he cannot cry.
End
I feel as if, on some fundamental level, Yu-Gi-Oh and Fight Club fit somehow. Just been watching it and thinking... yeah... Yami = Tyler Durman. Which, you know, is just wrong.
2: Fic.
Wrote this today. Had it brewing for a while now. A slightly rough draftt but it'll do. If I was at grans I'd leave it for a bit but I'm on my mum's comp so... putting it up here, partly for storage purpose. But if you like it, please leave a comment.
Title: Seven Times Seto cried, and once when he didn't.
Rating: PG:13
Disclaimer: Yu-Gi-Oh isn't mine, ect
Summery: Read the title, bozo.
Seto is one and screaming his little lungs out. His bum is wet and his stomach is empty and he is cold. He announces this to the world with hearty wails. His mother picks him up and silences his shrieks as lips that will some day order an attack from the Blue Eyes White Dragon fasten round her tit and suck happily.
Seto is five and he is huddled under a table and weeping, terrified beyond anything else. His father is crying too, down on his knees and wailing and that’s what scares Seto. Daddies aren’t supposed to cry. Of all the people in the world, daddies aren’t supposed to cry! There is another wail in the air too, the shriek of a new born. It seems as if the entire world is filled with tears and, falling back into old habits, Seto starts to yell for his mommy.
But his mommy will never come.
Seto is seven and crying into his father’s trousers because Mokie threw some of his Duel Monsters Cards into the bath. His father pats him on the shoulder awkwardly but he doesn’t help much. Daddies aren’t as good at stopping tears as mommies.
But he puts Seto on his lap and tells him that he will buy him new cards and that he mustn’t yell at his little brother and he mustn’t cry. Because he is seven and a big boy now, and big boys shouldn’t cry.
Seto is eight and trying to hold back his tears as his father’s funeral. He doesn’t succeed and they drip silently down red cheeks. His shoulders shake with sobs, seeming to reverberate up, (or is it down?) though his little brother who’s hand he holds and who is wailing openly.
Later he will cry again as he ask his relatives what is to become of him and Mokie. They will say that they cannot (will not) keep them, that they must go to an orphanage. Between his rage filled tears Seto tells them he will never, ever forgive them this.
Seto is nine and hiccupping with pain as blood drips down his knee. The older boy laughs at him and joins his friends in kicking down the sand-castle he and Mokuba built.
‘Nii-san,’ squeaks Mokuba, running over to Seto, fear in his wide eyes. Seto takes a deep breath and wipes away the tears quickly. He’s supposed to look after Mokuba now, supposed to be Mokuba’s daddy, and daddies shouldn’t cry.
‘Come on, Mokie,’ he says, making himself smile, ‘let’s leave these jerks alone. Sand-castles are stupid, anyway.’
Seto is ten and alone just outside his room, sobbing with joy. He is waiting for Mokuba to finish packing and he is glad his brother cannot see the silent, happy tears trickling down his face. He has beaten Gozaburo Kaiba at his own game. Today he and Mokie leaves the orphanage at last. To day things are finally looking up.
That’s worth a few tears.
Seto is eleven and he won’t let Gozaboro see him snivel as the belt comes down again and pain lances through his body. He won’t cry though.
To cry would let Gozaburo know that he has won again. He cannot give that bastard another victory.
Big boys shouldn’t cry. Daddies don’t cry. And Kaibas in training certainly never, never cry.
Now that is all three and he vows this will be the last time.
The last time he will allow the world to see his shame, his helplessness, his ultimate weakness.
Seto’s tears lasted one year longer than his smile.
He is older now, solemn and silent at the funeral. It is a dull, grey day, rain is a promise in the clouds yet to be delivered. Which is a shame because the raindrops would excuse the tears, or the lack of them.
The pain is an empty ball in his chest. A black ooze that creeps its way down the cheeks of every mourner but his and it separate him from them the way death never could.
They look at him and wait for the tears, wonder why they won’t come. Now of all times, why he will not cry.
It is not a matter of will; that is long broken. This is cannot. He cannot cry.
Gozabouro once told him… only losers cry.
But now… now he has lost.
And he cannot cry.
End