Mokuba still dreams about playing Capsule Monsters chess.
It was his favorite game. It was, once, and you can tell by how innocently his nightmares begin, usually at a small desk at the orphanage or the table of some large and colorful game shop, where Mokuba is small, no more than five years old, playing good old regular chess with a happy, oblivious grin on his face.
As the dream swells, Mokuba grows a little older and the chess game, too, starts to take on another shape: the checkered tiles bloom into green plains and gently rolling brown hills, and as the chess pieces morph and mutate into fantastical creatures, Mokuba's heart sinks, a cold dread spreading in the pit of his stomach. He always plays with the same set of monsters, the formations carved in stone, and no matter how many times he tries to change his strategy, the match still plays out exactly as it did two years ago. He keeps fleeing from the table to beat his fists against the glass wall of the box, begging his Nii-sama to let him out, but Nii-sama makes no answer and Mokuba has no choice but to return to the game, his eyes swollen with tears.
The other Yuugi waits for him to take his seat again. He, too, is always there.
"Your move, Mokuba."
Bigfoot is the only piece that remains, and Mokuba's hand picks it up as though it were wired to some malevolent mind that delights itself in making its puppet suffer. Mokuba's nostrils are raw with the metallic stench of adrenaline. He can taste the salt of his tears.
Bigfoot splits in half with an earth-shattering crack, and as it crumbles into nothing, the other Yuugi leaves Mokuba to his glass coffin, small, helpless prey to a thousand horrors with their claws sharp and their mouths full of fangs and acid…
Mokuba screams awake, his chest torn with pain as though his lungs had turned to shards of ice. He vaults out of his bed and runs down the hall, stumbling in the dark, and the second time he falls, he is snatched up by a pair of strong hands. He screams again, frightened out of his mind and kicking wildly about until a pair of arms wrap around him and press him to another fiercely beating heart, holding him tight. It takes him a long moment to realize that the soft voice in his ears is his Nii-sama's and he must have kicked Seto in the stomach at least twice before his brother managed to pin him to his chest. Mokuba sobs, his I'm sorry's a mess of choked syllables and Seto rubs his back soothingly, carrying him down to the kitchen without a sound.
He makes him a glass of sweetened milk, heating it up in a small saucepan and adding honey and spices as he goes. Mokuba is perched on the counter, his eyes large and his body cold with shock, and when Seto hands him his treat, he sips it very slowly, wanting its gentle warmth to last forever. Seto doesn't drink anything. He waits, his hands gripping the edge of the counter behind his back, for Mokuba to finish. Neither of them say a word. They've been there often enough to exhaust all conversation and the silence is almost comforting after the hisses, howls and cries inside that death trap.
Once he finishes his milk, Mokuba makes the journey back upstairs on his own feet, shuffling quietly across the cold marble floor. Seto walks by his side, his hand resting lightly against his little brother's shoulder blades as he guides him to his own room and the two lay down side by side on the too large bed, staring at the ceiling.
"What time is it?" asks Mokuba, his voice tight. Seto glances at his digital alarm clock.
"One twenty-four."
"It's my birthday," breathes Mokuba.
"I know," replies Seto, closing his eyes for a second. "Happy birthday, Mokuba."
Mokuba's face scrunches up and Seto draws him into his arms, rubbing his back until his little brother's shoulders stop trembling and the throbs of his chest die down, lulled into silence by his Nii-sama's soothing murmurs – apologies, promises, words of brotherly affection that only form comfortably when no one else can hear and Mokuba drinks them in, growing painfully full of love and fatigue.
"Sleep now," whispers Seto, tucking the covers up around him. "We're leaving early."
"To the beach house?" comes Mokuba's voice, small and thick with sleep.
"I promised, didn't I?" replies his Nii-sama, brushing a hand gingerly through his hair. Mokuba finally cracks a smile, resting his head on Seto's heart, and before long, he drifts off into a soft, empty sleep, leaving his brother wide awake with guilt that not even destroying that glass box and erasing all traces of his crime could take away from him, rattling behind him like an old, severed shackle.