Mr. Popular
When Mokuba first enters the halls of his new high school, he does so in limited Jordan Air sneakers and a pair of ratty jeans salvaged from the trash. Curiously, the students eye him. When Mokuba ambles by, the girls gossip, "That's Seto Kaiba's little brother."
Mokuba bites his lips.
At lunch, a trio approaches him. The leader, a senior judging by the way the cafeteria parts for her, clacks forward. She has two of her nails painted black on one hand and three painted crimson on the other; they're sharp as razors. The lanky girl juts out her hip.
"So, you're the Kaiba brat," she spits.
Mokuba grins sharply. "You're kinda cute."
Three periods later, they end up frenching behind the bleachers.
Seto comes by in the silver Lexus after school and Mokuba ducks his head and leans into the car. His hair's disarrayed and the neck of his blue-white jacket is undone. Seto smoothes down a few wrinkles with his right hand, over the Kaio school insignia on Mokuba's chest, and mutters something about buying proper soccer-wear under his breath. After Seto ruffles his hair, Mokuba gets into the car.
The second day, the principal scolds Mokuba for breaking the school dress code. Mokuba discards his jeans for white trousers and is forced to purchase a new uniform jacket. His artistic rendering of a Blue Eyes dragon on the back in black marker looks too much like a "hoodlum's logo." Shedding the oversized Jordan Airs, Mokuba squeezes his feet into a pair of low-lying sensible tennis shoes.
"I hope you understand the importance of being appropriately attired," the Principal scolds.
A good 10 centimeters of height are lost that day, but Mokuba gains the joyful discovery of cleavage during his daily rendezvous at the bleachers.
When Seto comes by in the Lexus after school, Mokuba's grin curls superciliously at the edges. His uniform is buttoned wrongly and one of his sensible tennis shoes is missing. Seto stares for a minute then abruptly whips his gaze back onto the road. Mokuba gets in and closes the door. Leaning a little on Seto, Mokuba tilts his head, but Seto only stiffens.
At home, Mokuba stands alone in their foyer for a long time until Seto returns from the kitchen with a grilled cheese sandwich on a plate.
They stare at one another.
"Here," Seto finally says. He hands Mokuba the blue porcelain, then carefully begins to unbutton Mokuba's uniform the way he's been doing since Mokuba was five.
Mokuba likes how Seto's fingers feel, uncommonly hesitant against his chest.
At lunch one day, Mokuba digs for change in his pockets for the juice machine and instead, draws out a small packet. Mokuba thumbs it, runs over the circular bump in the center.
That afternoon at the bleachers, the girl starts to unhook her bra but Mokuba lays his face against her chest and stops her.
"What's wrong?" The girl asks.
Mokuba thinks of the small packet in his pocket, of the person who put it there. It feels like it's burning a hole through his clothes. Mokuba frowns.
That afternoon, Seto pulls up in his Lexus and Mokuba is late. The CEO gets out his vehicle, leans against the door and folds his arms against his chest. He looks at the asphalt even when he hears the approaching footsteps, even when the scraggly shadow overlaps his.
"You're late."
"Sorry."
The voice is soft.
Seto looks up and Mokuba is perfectly composed. His hair is tidy though suspiciously wet, his shoes are on both feet, and Seto doesn't smell the floral perfume he'd grudgingly become accustomed to.
Mokuba gets into the car and leans against Seto.
Fingers thread themselves through Mokuba's strands, hesitantly at first, but then warmly and comfortingly.
Mokuba falls asleep during the ride home.