Drawing lines, in more ways than none. Seto and a failed intellectual exercise. Warning: slashcest.
Nevertheless, Seto likes lines. Lines form the clean rectangles of his card deck, of his laptop. Lines are sharp purity - like the crease in his trousers, like the Mondrian framed in his study.
Naturally, Mokuba is the complete opposite. In the grand scheme of Seto's asymptotical ambition, there's only one constant, k, or is it /m/, he thinks fondly as his little brother bounces sinusoidal against his arms.
Sometimes, in the late lull of night-meets-twilight, when Seto's wearied consciousness begins to betray him, he abruptly shuts the computer off, admiring the now-nothingness of the cooling monitor. From his third desk drawer he retrieves white paper and his favorite - no, preferred - fountain pen, and he draws perfect parallel lines closer and closer together, the thin flow of ink unbroken and unhesitant, until the dangerous ambiguity of thought becomes the comfortable binary of /blue eyes white dragon blue eyes white dragon/. It's imperative that the lines do not touch, he thinks, even as he sends the blackened paper through the shredder and staggers into bed.
That all changes on this day, odds of odds, when Seto sits up in bed and asks Mokuba what he wants for his birthday. This time, there's no childish bounce as Mokuba reaches out in the darkness and gently tugs on the waistband of Seto's pajamas. In the long silence that follows, Seto can hear himself breaking.
It's imperative, Seto thinks as he tangles his fingers in his brother's hair, kicking aside the crumpled sheets. /It's imperative that/, he thinks and unthinks as his tongue traces lines up Mokuba's throat until his vision blurs, and their mouths intersect in a kiss.