Disclaimer: I do not own Yugioh.
Deliberation
Mokuba stares at his brother's thin lips over breakfast and wonders if Seto's ever been kissed. Seto's mouth isn't soft or yielding or pouty like the girls in the magazines Mokuba has stashed under his bed. Seto's lips hardly ever curl up or ever relax in a smile. But when Seto does smile, it's this delicate quirk, right at the edges of his mouth, the barest lines relaxed. Never open with wide bright white teeth or seductive sinuous tongue. More often, the smile is a smirk, nothing but cold amusement and not welcoming at all. It's sad, Mokuba thinks. It's sad that no one ever notices that Seto's smile is so different from his smirk, that one extra gentled edge can mean so much. So when they've arrived at school and Seto bends down for a good-bye kiss in the car, Mokuba turns away from the cheek offered to him and presses his mouth to his brother's instead.
Seto lets him linger there.
Confession
Seto has a great aversion to touch. On rainy Sundays, when the sky is overcast and there's nothing to do but wile away hours in their mansion, Mokuba frowns and glares at Seto's briefcase as Nisama makes his way to work. He snags Seto's sleeve in the foyer. Seto looks down in surprise. It's boring, Mokuba says. He doesn't tell Seto how lonely it is, the only sounds in their house will be the taps of his shoes against the marble floor, ringing in an otherwise claustrophobic mausoleum. The maids will have come and gone and nothing will be out of place. The dishes will be washed, dried and spotless, the magazines will be artfully fanned in a peacock array on the coffee table and Seto's bed will be made up perfectly, with nary a stray crease or indentation. It's not fair, Mokuba says and his shoulders shake just a bit. Seto stoops down, places a hesitating hand over Mokuba's shoulder. The warmth of his palm soaks through the cotton. Mokuba seizes Seto's wrist. Pulls his brother down roughly and kisses Seto on the lips.
An hour later, Mokuba cries, curled up in Seto-scented sheets. He ignores the pounding on the locked door, the rising voice demanding an explanation.
Start
Baby Mokuba is soft and squirmy and he squints up at Seto as if he was nearsighted. Seto watches with wide eyes as his brother raises a tiny fist, reaching up to grab the brown locks dangling just out of reach. Seto leans a little closer, tilts over the polished wooden bars of the crib and smiles. Mokuba gurgles as he manages to capture a few stray hairs. Seto carefully unwinds those small fingers with gentle hands and then Mokuba decides to latch on his pointer finger instead. Seto brings the little fist up to his face. Brushes a kiss over that strong grip.
Mokuba giggles delightedly.