Chapter Text
Even in ancient Egypt, priestesses wore white as a symbol of purity.
It's fascinating how white can represent innocence and peace, but also sterility and extinction. In that sense, it's not so different from red; the color of love and warmth, but also of blood and violence. Or from black: power, elegance, sophistication… and death, mourning, the unknown.
But white possesses something the others lack: Experience. White is the absence of color, or perhaps, the potential of all of them. It depends on who you ask. White can be, to use a redundant phrase, a blank slate, shaped entirely by what endures.
In recent years, both Kaiba Seto and Joseph “Joey” Wheeler had become reflections of the colors they had chosen.
Everything about Kaiba subtly distanced him. His hair seemed to have recently acquired a lighter shade than his natural brown; Not enough to be considered unusual, but enough to draw attention. Even his name conveyed distance, two vowels away from something more common, Saito. Familiar, yet unmistakably different. A subtle hint to a father he barely remembered and a surname he had claimed by force.
Joey's divergence had never been silent.
Growing up as Daburu meant being seen before being understood. Born and raised in Japan, fluent in the language, but eternally a foreigner in the eyes of others.
Sometimes too Western, sometimes not Western enough. Assumptions followed him everywhere: that he only spoke English, that he wouldn't understand certain customs, that he was a visitor rather than a resident.
Stares. Questions. Corrections.
But none of that had ever extinguished the determined fire in his eyes!
And speaking of his eyes...
That morning was when the changes began.
The characteristic yellow color that many had once accused him of dyeing had begun to darken at the roots. The mixture of toothpaste and water shot from Joey's mouth like a violent jet onto the mirror.
"Black?!"
He brought his fingers to his hair, gripping the roots as if he could force the color out.
The reflection didn't change.
The contrast was already visible.
His breath caught in his throat as his pupils narrowed.
"No. No, no, no..." The word dissolved into something fainter, more fragile. It wasn't denial, but fear.
Serenity heard the scream before she understood it.
She was already halfway down the hall when the second "No!" echoed through the apartment.
“What?! What’s wrong?!” she demanded, not bothering to knock as she pushed open the bathroom door. “Are you-”
The question caught in her throat.
“What?!” She brought her hand to her mouth.
Joey didn’t answer. Or at least, not as he would have liked. He just kept shaking his head violently in front of the mirror, his palms pressed against the sink, as if bracing himself for an earthquake only he could feel.
He looked like a child who had broken something irreplaceable and was waiting for the consequences to rain down from the ceiling.
“No, no, no, no…”
“Joey,” Serenity called carefully, approaching him. “Hey! Hey! Look at me.”
He didn’t. Instead, he started pacing in tight circles, his bare feet slipping on the tiles.
"Nani?! Onde?! Quando?! Nande?!" The words tumbled out in a frantic mix of Japanese and Portuguese. "How is this…?"
"I know!" she insisted, never taking her eyes off him. "But… but you're a natural blond!"
"I know!" his voice cracked.
He ran his fingers roughly through his hair, as if the friction could bleach it, as if oxygen could reboot his brain and give him a logical explanation.
It didn't change.
The black remained, a stark contrast to the golden that had defined him for years.
"Okay, okay, one thing at a time!" she tried again, raising her hands in a reassuring gesture as she slowly approached him, like someone approaching a frightened animal. "First of all, you need to calm down."
He froze.
Slowly, too slowly, he turned his head toward her. His eyes were wide open.
"Calm down?"
Serenity immediately took a small step back.
"Y-yes," spoke cautiously. "Calm dow-"
"Calm down?!" His voice rose an octave in disbelief. "No one in the history of calm has ever calmed down just by being told to calm down!"
Serenity threw up her hands dramatically and tried to dash down the hall, finding herself pursued by her hysterical brother. The chase didn't get very far, though. Joey's foot hit the edge of the small coffee table in the living room. There was a split second of suspended physics before gravity won.
Joey crashed face-first to the floor with a sound much louder than his earlier scream.
Serenity gasped. "Joey!"
Joey lay there for a moment, his arms folded inward, his forehead pressed against the cold floor as if trying to melt into it, his shoulders trembling.
"Are you okay?" She knelt beside him, reaching out to help him up.
He recoiled from her touch.
"No!" he gasped, his voice choked, rolling onto his back. Tears of rage streamed down his temples. "I'm not okay!"
His chest rose and fell too fast.
"It's just hair, darling," she tried to say gently.
Joey's head snapped toward her.
"Just hair?" His voice cracked again, but this time there was something deeper in it. Something rawer. "You think it's just hair?!"
She hesitated. It wasn't, at least, not to him. His blond hair had always been the first thing people noticed, the first thing they questioned, the first thing they assumed was fake.
«Is it dyed?
Where are you really from?
Your Japanese is amazing.»
The gold had been mistaken for something artificial so many times that he had begun to use it as a challenge, as an act of rebellion.
His natural hair was proof. Proof that he didn't have to adapt, proof that he didn't have to blend in, proof that he could exist exactly as he was.
But now... Now the mirror reflected something unfamiliar. Something he hadn't chosen: Black.
His breath caught in his throat again.
"I didn't do anything," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "I didn't dye it. I didn't touch it. I just-I woke up and..."
His hand trembled as he raised it, grasping a dark strand between his fingers as if it were about to dissolve.
Serenity swallowed.
"It's okay," she comforted him in a low voice, softening her tone. "Don't worry. We figured it out together."
"How?" His laugh was hollow. "By calling a dermatologist and saying, 'Hi, yeah, my DNA decided to go into an emo phase overnight?'"
She didn't smile at the joke. Instead, she studied him more closely.
"...Joey."
He looked at her, and for a split second, she noticed something else.
His eyes looked darker at the edges. With a certain red tint only noticeable when you were close enough.
She felt a chill run down her spine.
"Did anything weird happen last night?"
"No," he answered automatically.
He paused.
There had been something, a dream.
Black water, a red glow beneath it, a huge silhouette rising behind him, and... Light. A blue light pierced the darkness.
He closed his eyes tightly again.
"Joey?"
He shook his head.
"It doesn't matter," murmured.
But it actually did. Because, faintly, almost imperceptibly, the blackness at his roots spread another centimeter.
Neither of them noticed.
At the other side of the world, Seto woke up as usual.
Not to an alarm, he'd long since grown accustomed to overcoming that need, but to routine. The subtle change in light through the closed curtains, the soft hum of the air conditioner adjusting to the morning temperature, the gentle knock that sounded at exactly the same time every day.
"Come in."
The door opened with silent efficiency.
The maid entered, her posture erect and her hands steady as she pushed the breakfast cart. The china clinked softly against the saucers as she placed it beside his bed.
This had been Mokuba's doing, a preventative measure against work-induced hunger.
Seto, of course, had objected at first. But now? He'd come to tolerate it.
"Good morning, sir," she greeted him politely.
He sat up without replying immediately, pushing back the silk sheets. The room was cool. Autumn had begun to settle in Domino, and the marble floors held the night's chill.
The woman remained there. That, more than anything, caught his attention.
Her eyes narrowed slightly as she watched him.
Seto noticed. And his tone became sharp without rising.
"What's wrong?"
"Sir, your..." She hesitated. "Your hair."
He raised an eyebrow.
"My hair?"
She nodded.
He exhaled silently, irritation was already rising. Another one of Mokuba's harmless attempts at humor, no doubt.
He lowered his legs from the bed. The cold floor sent a brief shiver through his bare feet, but he ignored it.
"Mokie!" His voice carried easily both in his spacious room and down the hallway.
"Yes, big brother?!" came the reply from the hallway.
Seto stood in front of the full-length mirror and froze. A section of his hair had undeniably turned white, mixed with brown in deliberate strands that hadn't been there the day before.
His expression didn't change.
"Mokuba!" he called again, his eyes fixed on his reflection. "Did you dye my hair again while I was sleeping?!"
"...What?!"
The confusion in Mokuba's voice was immediate, genuine.
Seto narrowed his eyes a little. It hadn't been the response he'd expected.
He approached the mirror with a look more analytical than alarmed. The strands weren't covered, nor stiff, nor artificially altered. They had grown up that way naturally.
He touched the paler area near the roots, but noticed no difference.
"Takeuchi."
The maid straightened instantly.
"Yes, sir?"
"Leave the breakfast. Inform Isono that I need a full medical evaluation prepared immediately."
Her posture hardened even more at the sound of her surname.
"Yes, sir. Right away."
She gave a slight bow and left without another word.
As she passed through the door, Mokuba entered, still in pale yellow pajamas, his hair disheveled with sleep.
"Why did you ask me about-" He stopped mid-sentence. "Oh."
Seto didn't look at him.
"Can you imagine I'd ask you if I already knew the answer?"
Mokuba clapped once.
"Touché!"
He leaned closer, squinting to see the pale part of hair. Then, absentmindedly, he began rubbing his collarbone area through his pajama top.
Seto noticed it in the mirror.
"Why do you keep doing that?"
Mokuba blinked. "Doing what?"
"That."
He shrugged. "I don't know. I just like feeling my bones."
Seto made a faint sound of dismissal.
"How long have you been awake?"
"Half an hour. And if you keep implying it was me, I don't repeat jokes. It's predictable. You're insulting my creativity."
Despite himself, the faintest curve touched the corner of Seto’s mouth.
He finally turned his attention from the mirror to Mokuba, resting a hand on his brother’s dark hair.
“I have endured worse,” he explained calmly. “I will resolve this. Eventually. For now, it does not constitute a priority.”
He released him.
Outside, autumn had settled fully over Domino.
Wind pressed against the tall windows, carrying the dry whisper of raked leaves across pavement. The light filtering through the glass was cooler now, bruised blues and muted violets of early October morning. Yet, some trees refused to comply. Scarlet leaves burned against the cold air like dragon fire. Saturated, defiant, holding onto summer’s intensity long after the temperature had surrendered.
Seto’s gaze lingered there for a fraction of a second.
Mokuba followed it.
“It’s been a while since something weird happened,” he commented casually. “You don’t think this is one of those ancient-magic things again?” He covered his mouth theatrically. “Sorry. ‘Hocus pocus.’ Your words.”
Seto’s nose wrinkled faintly.
"Hopefully not."
The last thing he required was another entanglement with forces that refused to obey logic.
He had tolerated ancient spirits once, endured pharaohs, prophecies and reincarnation theories. The only worthwhile outcome of that entire ordeal had been meeting Yugi and, perhaps, acquiring a dog whose stupidity was intermittently tolerable.
“Still,” he continued, leaning lightly against him, “you literally are the reincarnation of an anciente Egyptian priest. Statistically, this shouldn’t surprise you.”
Seto's voice sharpened.
“I am me. Seth was Seth. There is no overlap.”
“I was just saying-”
“You were wrong.”
Silence settled.
Seto’s gaze shifted back to the mirror and that was when he noticed it: His eyes. The blue was somehow a bit more clearer, like polished glass.
He leaned closer again. The color held steady, unatural in its intensity.
He straightened.
“What do we have for breakfast?” he questioned, dismissing the observation.
Mokuba perked up instantly. “I helped make some of it!”
Seto allowed the subject change.
Outside, mist clung low against the base of the mansion.
Autumn was meant to be the slow surrender of warmth into winter’s restraint. But even now, the leaves blazed stubbornly against the cold.
Red against blue.
Fire against frost.
A chromatic rebellion.
For a moment, brief, uninvited, he thought of a different red. One that was brighter than any other, uncontrolled, loud.
He dismissed it immediately.
Coincidence. Nothing more.
Almost imperceptibly, the white at his temples had spread another fraction. Except that, unlike Joey, he did not panic.