Atem rules the Underworld with steady hands and an unsteady heart.
Seto Kaiba comes to him without hesitation, without regret, affirming every choice he has ever made.
What saves one man may wound another.
This is not a story about forgiveness, nor redemption—
but about living beside someone whose certainty cuts deeper than doubt,
and finding a space where meaning can still be made.
This is a translation of an original work on Pixiv.
Original Title: それを挟んで
Original Author: 葉人(@Hathor₋yuki)
Personal site: https://prideshipping.sakura.ne.jp
The archives of the Underworld were quiet.
There was no scent of paper. What existed here were records, not books as they were known in the living world—records and memories, preserved without the warmth of ink or touch.
And yet, each time Atem walked between the shelves, a sensation akin to nostalgia brushed against him.
When he had first met Seto Kaiba, the man had been reading a book.
A thick one, bound in green.
The thought surfaced without reason or meaning.
He had merely remembered.
That man would become his lifelong rival—no, more than that. His lover.
At the time, Atem could never have imagined it.
Surely, neither of them had.
Atem let out a quiet, amused breath and ran his fingers lightly over the spines of the records lining the shelf.
On one of the days Seto visited the Underworld, Atem met him in a corner of the archives.
They walked side by side, and Atem spoke as if it were nothing more than idle curiosity.
“Kaiba. When we first met—what book were you reading?”
“A book?”
“Yes. I remember it being green. Thick.”
Seto slowed, just slightly.
He blinked once, as if tracing the path of an old memory.
“Books…”
His words trailed off.
After a brief pause, Seto steadied his breathing and continued, exhaling softly.
“I’ve read enough to last a lifetime.”
He said nothing more.
Atem gave a small, amused hum at the remark—so characteristically confident it was almost predictable.
He neither pressed the question nor sought to dig deeper.
The topic of books ended there.
Back in the living world, Seto stood alone in the study of Kaiba Manor.
Between tasks, his gaze wandered of its own accord as he moved along the shelves.
There—among the rows—a thick spine of green caught his eye.
Only then did the conversation with Atem in the Underworld resurface.
What book were you reading?
If he had answered then—
The thought cut itself off.
Seto allowed his eyes to rest on the green spine for the briefest moment.
He did not reach for it.
As though nothing had been there at all, he closed the shelf and turned away.
The time Atem spent in the Underworld was gentler than he had expected.
His lover, Seto, remained as relentlessly busy as ever, moving back and forth between the living world and the realm of the dead.
Work kept him occupied, or so he claimed—but on the days he decided to come, he never failed to appear. And once he was there, he was entirely there.
The way he touched, the way he drew Atem close—each gesture carried the weight of confirmation, yet never hesitation.
Within those arms, Atem would sometimes let out a faint, exasperated breath, only to find himself unable to locate a reason to refuse.
To begin with, there was no reason to refuse love.
As Seto refused to loosen his hold even for a moment, Atem curved his lips into a wry smile.
“You’re as forceful as ever.”
Seto scoffed softly.
“At this point? You know better. I’ve always been this way.”
No denial. No excuse.
Only a declaration of what he was.
Seto quietly took Atem’s hand.
It was a distance close enough that even the lightest contact carried heartbeats and breathing effortlessly between them. A meeting of eyes rendered words unnecessary.
Seto’s fingers traced along Atem’s spine—
with a persistence reminiscent of rewriting an unfamiliar map.
“…Kaiba, that’s—too much…”
Before the words could finish, Seto’s lips brushed against the nape of Atem’s neck.
What he left behind was the heat of life itself, and a domination with no escape.
Atem drew his shoulder in slightly, breath catching.
Seto, too, subtly aligned his body with Atem’s, watching every reaction without missing a single one—each uneven breath, each tension in the fingertips. Responding instantly, he closed the distance further, hand firm and precise.
Atem neither twisted away nor resisted.
He simply surrendered himself to that dense, meticulous attention.
Seto claimed each fragment of Atem’s skin, each faint sound of breath, as though quietly cultivating his own territory.
It was far too arrogant to be called mere caressing, and yet far too fevered to be called prayer.
“…Enough…”
The plea was sealed away by a merciless kiss.
There was no allowance for stagnation, no room for hesitation.
Atem’s fingers clenched the sheets as sensation flooded his body, melting him into a taut arch.
Seto pressed his lips to the exposed line of Atem’s throat, as though engraving his own undeniable answer there.
No words were needed.
The intent was conveyed through gaze and motion alone—
—to protect, to indulge, to utterly undo.
Atem accepted it.
Breathing ragged, he smiled faintly.
That alone was sufficient.
Nothing special was being done.
They simply accepted one another in entirety—drawing close, overlapping within their awareness. That act alone caused the outline of the world to tremble.
This was not an act devoted solely to pleasure.
The sheer fact that the beloved existed here was, in itself, overwhelmingly precious.
The warmth of Seto’s hand.
The direction of Atem’s gaze.
The slightest misalignment of their breathing.
All of it formed a quiet ritual—meant only to confirm understanding and acceptance.
Seto’s actions scorched away the “selflessness” of Atem as a king, redefining him as nothing more—and nothing less—than Seto’s lover.
Entwined fingers. Mingled breaths.
That fervor bound Atem’s heart to the joy called love.
The persistence was not violence, but pure affection—
an expression of love attuned solely to the rhythm and distance shared by the two of them.
And because of that, he drowned.
All of the “past” was overwritten by the living heat of the present moment.
Each time Seto held him, Atem felt his soul being recolored in Seto’s hues.
And how exquisitely sweet that nectar was.
That night as well, after their bodies had come together, the two lay side by side.
For Seto, holding Atem was never merely an expression of desire. It was a ritual—one meant to forcibly draw back a man who existed as nothing more than “memory,” confining him once again within the cage of flesh, anchoring him to life now.
Staring up at the ceiling, Seto spoke abruptly.
“I don’t make the wrong call.”
The words cut through the lingering sweetness without warning.
Atem blinked once, then shrugged lightly.
“There you go again.”
“It’s the truth,” Seto replied without hesitation.
“I don’t regret the reality of you being here. As a choice, it was the best one.”
It was an assertion.
Neither comfort nor pretense.
Atem pressed his forehead to Seto’s chest and laughed softly.
“Don’t declare it so absolutely. You could stand to waver, just a little.”
“There’s no need to waver.”
As he spoke, Seto threaded his fingers into Atem’s hair.
The gesture, contrary to his words, was astonishingly gentle.
“Of course… the judgment to bind ourselves like this was also correct.”
His voice was low, quiet, and sweet—
offering certainty under the name of affirmation, without a trace of doubt.
To Atem, it sounded like a confession of supreme love: the unwavering validation of a man who had chosen him, crossed dimensions for him, and never once looked back.
And within his own heart, Atem echoed the same words.
Savoring the thought that this moment was right, he felt warmth fill his chest.
That this relationship had begun.
That this warmth existed here, now.
They bound themselves together on the night before the Ceremonial Battle.
At the very least, he wanted to bid a proper farewell to the rival of his lifetime. After finishing his deck, Atem went to Seto’s room.
“…What do you want?”
Seto’s voice was cold. Bathed in the blue glow of a holographic monitor, he did not even bother to turn his gaze. To Atem, that rigid back carried the fierce nobility of one who chose to stand alone at a solitary summit.
Atem hesitated, unsure where to begin. Somehow, he could not bring himself to speak words of parting right away.
“…Yeah. I’ve finished my deck. Kaiba—let me thank you. You saved us in the world of memories. Without you, we would have lost.”
“Hmph. Gratitude is worthless. You were the one who said, ‘Do whatever you want.’ I merely found it unpleasant to have a rival I acknowledged stolen away by incomprehensible occult nonsense.”
Seto slowly turned his chair. His eyes were those of a man who had already cut away sentiment and gratitude alike—utterly devoid of weakness.
Faced with his usual refusal to be honest, Atem gave a wry smile.
“…That does sound like you. Still, the fact remains—you saved us.”
“I was simply dragged into the occult.”
“And yet you know by now that the occult is no longer just superstition, don’t you?”
“Perhaps. At this point, nothing surprises me anymore… Nothing good ever comes from getting involved with you. How many times do you plan on ending the world?”
Not long ago, Doma had nearly reset the world itself.
Even then, though Seto had been anything but cooperative in words, he had extended a hand to Atem.
“For the record, I never tried to destroy it.”
“…True enough.”
They had stood opposed. They had fought side by side.
A rival for a lifetime.
But the opponent he would face tomorrow was not this man. And perhaps—perhaps he would never fight him again.
“I’m glad we could talk like this,” Atem said softly.
With a faint, crooked smile, he stepped closer. The distance between them closed, as though crossing the boundary of fate itself.
“Tomorrow, I’ll fight my partner. Whether I win or lose, I doubt I’ll remain here. The door to the Underworld will open.”
At those words, a sharp crease formed between Seto’s brows. For him, Atem’s “disappearance” meant the erasure of the absolute summit he was meant to conquer—an intolerable void that could even shake the meaning of his own existence.
“Are you saying you intend to lose to some duelist other than me?”
He spoke not of returning or not returning, but with open irritation.
Seto rose to his feet. The pressure he radiated was that of a man prepared to trample even gods.
Of course, Atem had no intention of losing. Still, returning to the Underworld was a fate written into him.
“I don’t plan to lose. Even so, the day will come when I must return. That’s why I came—to say goodbye—”
“Then I’ll drive in a new wedge,” Seto cut in. “The peace of the Underworld doesn’t suit you. I’ll bind your soul with chains too strong to break.”
“…What are you planning?”
Near Atem’s parted lips, Seto smiled—boldly, and with a beauty that bordered on the inhuman.
“I love you.”
Silence.
It was as though all sound aboard the vessel vanished. Atem forgot how to breathe, his eyes widening.
Those words were not a plea—they were a declaration of dominion. A vow to possess the very existence called Atem, forever, through Seto’s own will to power.
“…And you’re the same,” Seto continued. “A soul that has known my heights could never be satisfied with an ordinary death.
Atem was left speechless. Beneath the violent rejection lay a maddening affirmation.
What Seto sought was not gentle love. It was the supreme brilliance of life that could only be tasted within endless struggle—where they sharpened one another, destroyed one another, and rose again.
Seto went on.
“I don’t make the wrong call. I chose you.”
Atem could not deny it. Somewhere along the way, Seto had become more than a mere rival—he had become a presence that stirred emotions beyond easy classification.
To be told “I love you” by such a man—remaining unmoved would have been impossible.
“Kaiba… you truly are an arrogant man.”
Atem let out a small breath and returned the smile. In his eyes dwelled a deep reverence and resonance—for a man who would defy destiny itself.
“Survive, Atem. The one who will defeat you and claim your soul completely… is me.”
Seto’s arms pulled Atem close.
Even if the world were to be divided tomorrow, the contract their souls exchanged in this moment transcended all laws—binding the two of them together, eternally.
For Atem, the days spent as a king in the Underworld had, before he realized it, shifted from a duty into something resembling daily life.
To judge.
To command.
To witness.
The laments of the dead, their prayers—none of it pierced his chest the way it once had.
And yet, at certain moments, the past would rise up without warning.
—That time.
Standing beside the throne, Atem suddenly stilled his hand.
Before him were souls lined up much as they had been long ago.
The only difference was that they were already dead.
Could I have saved more?
The thought crept in quietly.
Not as accusation.
Not as a scream.
Merely as a calm, unadorned question.
The choices he had continued to make as king three thousand years ago.
The judgments he had believed were the best possible ones.
Even so, there were things that had undeniably been lost.
Next time.
Without letting anyone hear, Atem decided so within his heart.
If there is a next time—I will protect them.
That resolve was less an oath than a habit.
A way of thinking a king had naturally acquired over time.
After that day, Seto came to the Underworld.
Still faintly carrying the scent of the living world, he spoke as casually as ever.
“Same as always, this place.”
“I’m used to it now,” Atem replied shortly.
Seto’s lips curved with satisfaction—then his eyes narrowed as he looked at Atem’s face.
“Atem… you look pale.”
“You really do notice everything. …I was up late last night, had things to take care of. I’ve got a bit of a headache.”
Seto produced a sheet of pills and pressed it into Atem’s hand.
“If you’re in pain, say so sooner.”
“…Thank you.”
Atem murmured his thanks and swallowed two tablets.
As they walked side by side, Seto spoke of what he had done to reach the Underworld, as if delivering a routine work report.
Dimensional theory.
Quantum interference.
Occult phenomena.
Things an ordinary person would laugh off, Seto had carried out as reality.
“People probably thought it was reckless,” Atem said.
Seto denied it immediately.
“It wasn’t reckless. It was a necessary procedure.”
There was no hesitation.
“I’ll do things my way. Those who can’t understand don’t need to.”
His words were calm, matter-of-fact.
But beneath them lay unshakable conviction.
“Kaiba.”
Atem called to him.
Seto didn’t turn around. Facing forward, he answered curtly.
“The past is unnecessary in the blueprint of my future.”
That back—unchanged, straight, solitary, and dazzling.
“I don’t make the wrong call.”
As Atem listened to those words, he felt something within his chest grow quietly still.
He didn’t want to deny them.
They weren’t unpleasant.
Rather—
Strong.
He was faintly surprised at himself for thinking so.
A man who never spoke of regret.
A man who never voiced if only.
Seto chose, decided, and moved forward.
He never looked back.
—That’s ideal.
The thought bordered on admiration.
Atem recalled the countless branches he had chosen as king.
If only I had done this then.
If only I had chosen that path.
And yet he understood.
There is no such thing as if only.
That was why Seto’s way of being appeared so radiant.
And quietly, it dissolved into Atem’s blood.
The royal palace of the Underworld was too silent to be called night.
In corridors where neither moon nor stars could reach, only time lay settled, unmoving.
Alone, Atem rested his fingertips against the edge of the throne, tracing memories from three thousand years ago, and the battles of the World of Memory.
What rose to mind before victory were the backs of fallen priests.
The prayers of the people he had failed to protect.
A kingdom laid to ruin.
Countless possibilities—chosen as king, and discarded as king.
“If only—”
The words stopped deep in his throat.
No one understood better than Atem himself.
There is no if only.
A king is one who lives carrying the futures he did not choose.
That resolve was something Atem had accepted three thousand years ago—or so he had believed.
And yet.
Now, by Atem’s side, there existed a man who crossed that principle with effortless ease.
Seto Kaiba.
A man who never wavered in judgment, never hesitated in decision, and never looked back on the path he chose.
“I don’t make the wrong call.”
Seto spoke those words not with pride, but simply as fact—
as though the concept of regret did not exist in his world at all.
To Atem, that was salvation.
Every time Seto affirmed the present, Atem’s existence was affirmed unconditionally as well.
The past was not questioned.
Choices were not condemned.
Simply being here was treated as the correct answer.
If only I could live the way Seto does.
His way of thinking was brutally clear, overwhelmingly strong.
He allowed no if only, and never discarded the now.
He embraced every consequence of his choices as his own.
Atem knew—
He could not think the same way.
He could not declare that the war three thousand years ago had been “right.”
He could not call sacrifice the optimal choice.
And yet, every time he looked at Seto, something creaked deep within his chest.
Envy.
An ideal.
And a faint trace of self-disgust.
Seto’s unwavering certainty quietly unearthed the regret Atem had buried within himself.
The “regret of a king” he had pretended to forget grew murky, like stirred mud, and began to take shape.
Am I weak?
Within Seto’s immaculate self-affirmation, there was not a single word that blamed another.
And precisely because of that, there was no escape.
He should be forgiven—yet it felt as though he was not.
He was affirmed—yet he alone continued to judge himself.
That night, for the first time, Atem dreamed of three thousand years ago.
A dark god he might have defeated.
A priest he might have saved.
Countless worlds that were never chosen.
Seto did not appear in the dream.
Yet his voice remained, unmistakably clear.
—There is no if only.
Footsteps—just one—cut through the stillness of the palace of the Underworld.
“…What are you thinking?”
The voice from behind pulls Atem up from the depths of his thoughts.
When he turns, Seto is there.
His gaze is sharp, focused—missing nothing of the quiet turbulence beneath Atem’s composure.
“Nothing,” Atem almost answers on reflex, then stops himself.
There is no reason to lie.
“…No. I’ll be honest.”
He exhales softly, the corner of his mouth lifting in a faint, self-mocking smile.
“I was thinking about what ifs. About three thousand years ago—about whether I could have done better.”
Seto’s brow moves, just slightly, but unmistakably.
Not disgust. Not rejection.
It is the irritation one feels toward something fundamentally incomprehensible.
He steps closer and lays a hand around Atem’s shoulder.
Not tight. Not inescapable.
But firm enough to keep him there.
“A meaningless premise,” Seto says at once.
The words cut cleanly—but they are not condemnation.
“Still,” he continues, “I’ll answer you.”
He looks down at Atem, certainty unwavering.
“If this life—every battle in your memory world, this separation, all of the pain—”
He pauses, then finishes evenly.
“Even if I were forced to repeat it all, endlessly and forever, I would choose you every single time.”
There is no hesitation when he says it.
“I can affirm all of it.”
Atem’s heart gives a sharp, unmistakable thud.
There is no mistaking it—
those words are love.
No conditions. No reservations.
A declaration that embraces the past, the future, even the consequences of every choice.
“…I see. Thank you.”
The reply is genuine.
Color rises faintly to his cheeks, and a small smile touches his lips.
Seto’s words are fervent—intense.
Not sweet so much as strong.
So strong that Atem almost feels wrapped in them.
And yet—
After Seto returns to the living world, and the palace is quiet once more,
Atem finds himself seated in the library, unconsciously repeating the same habit.
What if—
His thoughts stop there.
He cannot affirm it.
There is a part of him that cannot affirm Seto’s words.
That massacre.
The lives he failed to save.
The countless futures he chose—and discarded—as king.
He cannot bring himself to say that he would relive all of it, forever, without change.
His fingers begin to tremble.
To affirm everything means—
to accept that hell without correction, without salvation, without a second chance.
That—
At last, Atem understands.
Seto’s words were a blessing.
They were love.
But at the same time, they were a blade that cleanly split him as king.
Atem, the individual, was saved.
Atem, the king, could only have the breath driven from him.
Seto is not wrong.
His love is real.
Only—
Their values are fatally different.
That night, trembling, Atem makes a wish for the first time.
If only I could have been a king who could affirm it all.
And that very wish—
quietly, inevitably—begins to cut him apart.
The air of the Underworld felt heavier than usual.
The moment Seto crossed dimensions and set foot there, he sensed something was wrong.
The palace was quiet—
but not the ordered stillness it was meant to have.
It was the silence left behind after something essential had been torn away.
“Atem.”
He called out. There was no reply.
Seto moved forward, deeper into the archives, until at last he found him.
What sat there was not the King of the Underworld, crowned and resolute.
Leaning against the shelves, head bowed—
a boy who looked as though gravity itself were pressing him down.
“…Atem?”
Seto lowered his voice as he called his name.
In that instant, his thoughts were hurled violently into the past.
—A conversation from days ago.
—A voice that had spoken of “what if.”
—And the words Seto himself had spoken with finality.
“Even if it were repeated for all eternity, I could affirm every part of it.”
He froze.
Understanding came immediately.
He had let him touch it.
That thing—
the book Seto had sworn to himself would remain forbidden.
A book he had decided Atem must never be allowed to reach.
That was why, when Atem had once asked what he’d been reading when they first met, Seto had deflected the question.
That book still lay untouched in the study of Kaiba Manor—kept there precisely so Atem would never come into contact with it.
Because paired with Atem’s past, with Atem’s nature, it was the worst possible combination.
To Seto, another person’s philosophy was neither poison nor cure.
But to Atem, it could only ever be poison.
To a king who bore responsibility, who carried regret, who constantly asked himself Could I have saved more?—
the “affirmation” offered by that book was not salvation.
It was—
an order to deny the self that mourns.
For the first time, Seto became fully aware.
What he had given Atem had not been words of love.
Hidden beneath those words of love had been something else.
An ideology.
And worse—one badly compounded.
It was Seto himself who had brought it into the Underworld, through his actions and his speech.
He knew, instinctively, that if this continued, Atem would break.
There was no hesitation.
This was no longer a matter to be explained with words.
“Atem!”
Seto rushed forward and pulled the collapsing body into his arms with brute force.
He did not consider the possibility of being rejected.
Understanding was not what was needed now.
Nor acceptance.
What was needed was warmth.
In his arms, he felt Atem’s body trembling—so faintly it was almost imperceptible.
His thoughts were frozen solid.
There was no strength left even to break words apart and process them.
As Seto stared at the trembling back in his arms, he found himself recalling the words on the green spine of the book he had once skimmed and cast aside.
They matched perfectly.
That realization sent a chill through him.
Every confession of love he had given Atem, every declaration of devotion to his soul—
all of it was laid out neatly on those pages.
The hands he had layered over Atem’s wounds, believing he was sealing them,
had in truth been a corrosive agent, widening the injury instead.
Seto’s arrogant self-affirmation was what had driven Atem—who was ready to martyr himself to regret as a king—into a state where he could scarcely breathe.
“…It’s okay.”
He did not explain what was okay.
He could not.
So he simply held him.
Blocking every escape, yet careful not to break him.
As an expression of intent itself—to never let go, physically or mentally.
Seto understood.
If he spoke here, his words would become another blade.
If he gave him ideology now, the poison would only spread further.
So he taught nothing.
Affirmed nothing.
Cut nothing away.
He was simply here.
“…This belongs to me.”
It was not a declaration of possession.
Not control. Not domination.
—It was a statement of responsibility.
He was the one who had given him the forbidden book.
Then it was his role to hold him until its side effects faded.
Seto tightened his arms.
If he had killed him with thought, then only the body could hold him back.
He sealed his lips as if biting them shut.
If he whispered anything now, it would become a spell that denied Atem forever.
So he converted every one of his thoughts into strength in his arms, and confined him there.
Warmth alone—
was the one meaningless fact not recorded in that detestable green book.
If he had broken him with ideology, then he would stop it without using ideology at all.
That night, in the archives of the Underworld,
the king stopped thinking—and, held in someone’s arms, slowly regained his breath.
Atem continued to fulfill his duties as King of the Afterlife without flaw.
Judgment, mediation, command—
in every respect, he remained precise.
To any observer, there was no sign of instability.
But the moment the crown was removed, his thoughts took on another face.
—Affirm it.
It was not a voice.
Not even an order.
Before he noticed, it had settled there—as a premise underlying all thought.
The people he could not save.
The retainers he lost.
The countless branches where a different hand might have been chosen.
Having been a king, none of it could be dismissed as inevitable.
To affirm everything would be to forgive catastrophe.
He could not forgive the blood on his own hands.
To wish that next time he would choose a better path—
that impulse itself was Atem.
And yet, even that wish was judged.
—Even so, affirm it.
—Do not choose again, even with an uncorrectable past included.
A life cannot be repeated.
And precisely because it cannot be repeated, one cannot help but think:
If this life were to be lived again, I would choose differently.
Because it cannot be repeated, he cannot forgive himself.
The gods remain silent.
No salvation is prepared.
No correct answer is given.
Even so, live.
Even so, affirm.
A closed circuit of thought with no escape.
This is not a hell where one is punished by another.
It is a hell where one judges oneself without end.
Atem could not give it words.
To put it into words would make it a thought.
And once it became a thought, it would entangle him further.
So Atem chooses.
To think nothing.
To choose nothing.
To entrust himself only to the warmth that is there.
Within Seto’s arms.
An embrace neither strong nor gentle, with no route of escape.
Less protection than an emergency bandage—
applied only so his thoughts would not collapse any further.
At the same time, cradled there, Atem is forced to confront his own thinness of being.
The pressure of life that Seto radiates
is a wordless interrogation directed at the dead.
Atem closes his eyes.
What cannot be forgiven,
what cannot be affirmed—
for now, he sets them aside.
Not because he cannot think.
But because he knows that if he continues to think, he will break.
If this hell were to be given a name, it would be a curse.
And the one who gave birth to the thought that became that curse
is still here now,
not leaving his side.
That alone was the single fact
that existed outside the closed circle.
Seto loosened the strength of his embrace, just barely.
Not to let him go—
but so his words could reach him.
“Atem. Remember one thing.”
His voice was low, but unmistakably clear.
Neither an order nor a consolation.
“That is my way of thinking. It is not something you are meant to carry.”
Atem’s body stiffened, just a fraction.
Only then did he realize—too late—that something which had remained tangled deep within his chest had been pointed out with exact precision.
A curse never spoken aloud.
A premise of thought he had never even been able to name.
Seto had seen through it.
“As a king, you have no obligation to affirm everything. What you possess is the right to regret.”
It was a declaration.
Not a negation. Not an overwrite.
“Do not discard your regret over those you could not save. You are not me. As long as you are yourself, there is no need for you to let go of that pain.”
Atem could not answer.
He could neither argue nor agree.
All he could feel was something grinding softly in his chest.
“You don’t have to think,” Seto said after a brief pause.
“And you’re allowed to think.”
It sounded contradictory, yet it was precise.
“Even so, I will come here.”
Not a promise.
Not a guarantee of the future.
A statement of fact.
And just as he said, Seto came.
Not once or twice.
Each time thought sank,
each time regret surfaced,
each time the curse began to take shape again.
It was impossible to simply stop thinking.
That weight was not something one could conveniently set down.
And yet—
Thoughts on the verge of collapse,
a body nearly coming apart—
when Seto was there, they took shape again.
Not salvation.
Not forgiveness.
Just the ability to continue existing without completely breaking.
They did not carry the same way of thinking.
They did not share the same answers.
Even so, they stood side by side.
That was Seto’s choice—
and the only margin of space granted to Atem.
Seto continued to come to Atem in the Underworld.
He offered no special reasons, set no fixed schedule.
He simply appeared—when he deemed it necessary.
In the palace of the Underworld.
In the library.
Along the silent corridors.
Whether Atem was silent or lost in thought, nothing changed.
One day, Seto spoke abruptly.
“Don’t misunderstand.”
It was not a reprimand.
It was a clarification.
“There is no correct answer to that. No forgiveness. No salvation.”
The words were coldly precise, stripped of all excess.
“But meaning can be made.”
Seto did not look at Atem, as if to make clear that this was neither persuasion nor comfort.
“It isn’t something given by others. Not something I give you. It’s something you make yourself.”
A beat of silence fell.
Atem found himself waiting for what would come next.
—Even so, live.
—Even so, affirm it.
But Seto said nothing.
In that silence, Atem understood.
The meaning of what was not said.
Neither live, nor affirm.
Seto would never issue such commands.
That domain belonged to each individual alone.
The core of the curse had been Seto’s way of thinking from the beginning—
and it was something Seto himself had to bear.
“…You’re remarkably rough about it,” Atem said at last.
Being told to make meaning offered no guidance on where to begin, or with what.
Seto merely shrugged.
“Not my problem.”
He turned his gaze slightly away, idly following the light falling across the corridor of the Underworld.
In truth, he had no intention of touching that any further.
Adding more words would only hand Atem something poisonous again.
And yet—
“…The day we first met,” Seto said quietly.
“The book I was reading. You wanted to know about it.”
“A book…? I don’t remember—”
“I’ve read enough to discard without thought. I remember.”
Seto did not meet his eyes.
Atem’s voice trembled.
“What… was written in that?”
Why Seto had hidden it.
Why he was speaking of it now.
Atem understood, dimly.
“…To me, it was nothing more than a string of alphabetic symbols.”
Atem could not answer right away.
His gaze wavered; he missed hold of something, and let out a single breath.
—That can’t be true.
He wasn’t organized enough inside himself to say that with certainty.
“…Then to you…? And to me…?”
The moment he voiced it, he realized how unbearably heavy the words were.
If he continued, something would break irrevocably.
He looked at Seto, waiting—but Seto did not explain.
It was just a single book.
And yet, for him, it was something fatal.
“That’s right. And even if you come into contact with things like that… whether you make meaning of them or not is your choice.”
He did not guide understanding.
He offered no escape.
Atem started to search for an answer—then stopped.
For now, simply holding the question was all he could manage.
Seto’s words sounded dismissive, but they were not abandonment.
They returned the subject.
Atem felt a faint change deep in his chest.
The ring of thought entwining him had not completely come undone.
But the command at its center—affirm—no longer issued orders.
He understood that Seto had taken it back.
A part of the curse.
He did not think himself saved.
He did not think himself forgiven.
And yet—
The place where meaning could be made had finally returned to the inside of himself.
Seto returned once more to the living world.
He did not say when—or if—he would come again.
But the certainty that he would remained.
That was enough.
There was no correct answer.
No salvation.
Even so, the space in which meaning could be made was undeniably here.
For the first time, Atem quietly regarded that margin—
as something that belonged to him.
The night of the Underworld was, as ever, quiet.
But the oppressive weight it once carried was gone.
The proposition that had endlessly circled within his thoughts was no longer there.
It neither commanded nor rejected him now.
Atem stood beside Seto in the depths of the library.
“…Even so.”
He chose his words slowly.
“Even so, I still think about if.”
Seto did not interrupt.
“Three thousand years ago—even in the same situation—I wonder if I could have chosen differently. If next time, I might save more.”
After finishing, Atem looked at Seto.
He no longer feared rejection.
Nor correction.
Seto paused, as if considering.
“…I see.”
That was all.
“If that has meaning for you, then so it does.”
Neither denial nor consolation.
Simple acceptance.
“You and I are not equal,” Seto said evenly.
“I discard if. And you carry if. That’s all there is to it.”
There was no need to measure which was right.
Atem exhaled quietly.
“There is,” he said—short, but certain.
“There is meaning. For now… because I am the King of the Underworld.”
As long as he was king, he would continue to consider the possibility of choosing differently when standing in the same place again.
That was not regret.
It was duty.
At that answer, Seto’s lips softened—just slightly.
“Then that’s fine.”
Atem smiled.
Words were no longer necessary.
They simply embraced.
Not dependence.
Not protection.
An embrace that confirmed they could stand—remaining different.
In time, Seto returned to the living world.
His study was as orderly as ever.
At the back of the shelf, the green spine was still there.
Seto let his gaze rest on it for only a moment.
To him, the thoughts written in that green book—someone else’s philosophy—had been nothing more than a sequence of alphabetic symbols.
But he had known, instinctively, that to Atem it would become a corrosive poison, burning from the inside.
That was why he had hidden it.
And yet, Atem had found it, and touched it.
Not because Seto had tried to become that—
but because Seto himself had been its prototype.
He takes the book in hand, but does not open it.
Instead, he throws it into the fireplace.
Paper burns.
Thought turns to ash.
It is neither denial nor rejection.
It is simply no longer necessary.
Watching the flames, Seto murmurs,
“…That was my way of thinking.”
The poison that reached Atem had not come from the philosophy written in the book.
The ash collapses quietly.
What burned in the hearth were only inked symbols printed on paper.
In the Underworld, Atem walks on as king.
Carrying if, so that he may continue to choose.
The living world and the Underworld.
Thought and way of being.
They are not equal.
But they can stand side by side.
That alone was enough.
Notes:
This story is not meant to offer answers.
Kaiba’s certainty is not presented as correct, nor is Atem’s hesitation framed as weakness.
They are simply incompatible ways of facing the past.
Love here is not salvation, but responsibility—
staying close even when your words become a blade,
and choosing not to leave when repair is impossible.
Thank you for reading a story that lingers between acceptance and regret.
