Warnings: Slight shounen-ai (boy x boy), angst, a very angry Mokuba. DON'T LIKE, DON'T READ.
Written for myself, uploaded for Nikila.
Portraits
Nowadays, Mokuba Kaiba is always full of anger, and everyone knows it. He doesn't care to hide it, as he storms through the halls of Domino High, not bothering to say "excuse me" as he runs into that bastard Jonouchi, as he blows off the girls selling cookies for some charity cause, as his feet nearly pound holes into the stairs when he slams them into the vinyl with ever-present rage. His thick black hair swishes back, forth, back, forth with each step, stormy eyes permanently narrowed from giving dirty looks to the classmates who dare look at him.
He barges into the art studio, letting the door slam with a violent thud, and throws down his backpack in disgust. The other students don't even bother raising their heads. They know his daily routine of anger, and subconsciously note the patterns of his footsteps fading and coming closer as he gathers a few sheets of blank paper and the darkest, thickest stick of charcoal he can find.
The tables in the studio have seven seats each, and there are three tables. The first two are full with students of varying grades, laughing and gossiping. Their pathetic conversations irritate Mokuba to no end, making him long to strangle them. He avoids them at all cost, and makes his way to his usual seat at the back table. He sits at one end, and an older boy named Ryou Bakura sits diagonal from him. Sometimes Ryou smiles softly at Mokuba, unfazed by his looks of hatred, but the two never speak. This is partially due to the fact that Mokuba always plugs his ears with his beloved KaibaCorp earbuds, attached to his precious music player, and blasts music that can be heard at the other end of the room.
Mokuba separates one thin piece of paper from the set he brought, and doesn't hesitate to crash the charcoal into it, holding it like a hammer. The thick lines turn into a vaguely familiar face, with an ambiguous expression. Mokuba grunts in frustration, debating whether to draw the Niisama he has become so disenchanted with, so frustrated with, the way he really is, or the way he wants him to be. For a minute he lets his hand flow freely, and the face bears an icy cold gaze. Mokuba screams at it, hating it with all his soul and tears the paper to shreds.
Ryou does not even raise an eyebrow. He is used to this behavior, and it does not break his concentration as he lightly drags his pencil over his own paper, letting it take a life of its own. Unlike the boy across from his, who craves control, Ryou prefers the art to control itself, to a certain degree. Perhaps because it is more familiar, or perhaps because if he begins to feel too powerful, the voice in his head will put him back in his place with a cackling laugh.
He stares, mesmerized, as he makes short little marks of graphite appear, and the human form of a body manifests itself, long hair whipping freely in the wind. It is him, but is it the way he is now, or the way he longs to be? The question is too difficult to answer, so he concentrates on the background of the ocean, perfectly sketching the little waves. When he finishes, there is nothing left but a human outline asking to be defined. But he cannot face it, or himself, so he quietly folds the paper and places it in the recycle bin.
The next day, Mokuba assaults the paper in rage, first drawing the loose oval of a face, the perpendicular lines down the middle, and then digs the compressed charcoal to form a jawline, a nose, and the rest of a face. On an expressionless Seto he slams the stick at one end of his cheek and drags it to the other in a curved manner, back and forth, creating a huge black smile. The eyes are still icy cold, as if they could be anything else, so Mokuba censors them in a rough black rectangle. Good, the negativity in Niisama's face is hidden. But now it's not Niisama anymore. Mokuba shrieks in frustration, not hearing himself over the music, and claws at the drawing until it is no more.
Ryou lightly sketches a direct self-portrait, and at first becomes pleased with its relative accuracy. However, he beings to feel slightly disturbed at the lack of expression on the drawing's face. Has he really suppressed his emotions for that long? Has he even forgotten what it means to feel anger and rage? Has he really avoided getting too close to others out of fear of hurting them for most of his life? He tries to imagine himself laughing passionately or screaming in fury, but he cannot. No matter how hard he tries, he can't portray any sincere emotion, and lightly frowns at the soft smile before him. He gently folds the paper, imposing his disappointment with each sharp crease, and places it inconspicuously in the recycle bin.
The following week, Mokuba draws two small figures. They appear to be children, holding hands innocently, one older than the other. He stares at the paper and nearly smiles at the proportional accuracy, until he remembers that his scene is naught but a memory. A boiling, confused rage builds up inside him and almost painfully, he rips the paper down the middle, separating the figures. He smiles victoriously at the reality of the disconnected bodies, and then screams and tears them to shreds.
Ryou has given up at the self-portraits. Today he dares to delve into the recesses of his soul, and begins to sketch the familiar, forgotten face of a little girl. He repeats her evanescent name over and over in his head, proud that he has come to terms with her death well enough to materialize her like this. But the mishaps of the graphite tug at his heart, and it seems almost like blasphemy to make one little mistake. The voice in his head mocks him as he sets the pencil down and rests his head in his hands, unsure about the manner in which to tackle the issue. In the end, he erases every trace of his precious sister before neatly folding the paper and sliding it in the recycle bin.
The day Mokuba forgets his earbuds, the world turns upside down. The revolution begins with an innocent question, the one Ryou has been asking himself for the longest time, the one he has also wanted to ask Mokuba for a while now, the one Mokuba needs to answer in words:
"What are you drawing?"
It continues long after class is over, in a liberation of violent tears and unfamiliar emotion, and ends in a bitter kiss.
(No flames please!)