Quickfic. Just a little note before we start, I just wanted to do something fluffy and such without actually finishing the entire series. I had a paper I was doing about the effects of hypothermia and its proper treatment, and once somebody's really got it bad they have trouble speaking and even thinking--so don't go throwing around the OOC card on Mokuba, I was going for something approximating realism (and I don't honestly think I messed him up that badly). That said, enjoy, even if you only like it as much as I do..
Hypothermia
-a
psychoswordlady fanfic-
He could see the tiny body in the distance, a dark fleck in the white snow. His steps trudged faster; the hems of his pants became soaked in what little of the freeze had melted, his expensive boots did little to shield his feet from the cold. He guessed it to be somewhere below zero Celsius from the numbness on his nose, and regretted not bringing that new scarf.
A scarf. How could he be thinking of something as petty as that? His brother was freezing to death out there in the snow, and he was thinking about how much he'd like to have a scarf. Selfish bastard. Selfish, selfish bastard! He wanted to run to the boy, to see if he was still in time. He wanted to run, but his legs wouldn't go faster than a brisk walk no matter how much he willed himself. It was like he didn't even have control of himself anymore.
He drew closer in that brisk walk of his that could only be described as monotone. The boy was crumpled into a tiny ball, barely shivering anymore. The long-sleeved cotton shirt and puffy down vest had failed to fight off the fierce wildcats of the cold; the boy's face was pale and his small bare hands, ears and lips already had a bluish tint. His eyes were closed; his breathing abnormally slow. The older sibling's brow furrowed. He was this late? Why couldn't he have just walked a little faster?!
Berating himself in his mind would do nothing to help, though, and he stopped himself. He had to stay rational. He had to help his brother. He squatted, taking care not to get any more of his clothing wet than he had to, and unbuttoned his shirt, wincing as the cold ripped the bared part of his torso into gooseflesh as he lifted his younger brother from the snow. He pushed aside his locket, pressed the boy to his chest and slid the limp, cold hands up into the warmth and solace of his underarms, eliciting a quiet moan from the child. The tiny hands leeched the warmth from them quickly; the elder was beginning to shiver violently already, so he steeled his muscles to keep his concentration. He wrapped his shirt and coat around his brother, holding him and the garments in place with a deathgrip embrace. How could this have happened to him and his brother? He had money! He had power! He had looks and smarts and a massive collection of cards and things! And yet, he lacked the foresight to prevent this. For all the power and money he had, he was powerless to keep his brother out of danger--again.
He sighed and turned back and began the long walk back to the helicopter, trudging even slower than before. The cold tore at him; he grew slower still with his coattails now soaked and heavy and the added load of the eleven-year-old weighing him down. For the first time in a long time, he wished he was stronger, that he hadn't wasted his life in front of that chess board and that damned computer. Stock trading was useless to him now. This fragile creature he called not just a vice-president, but a little brother, was fifty paces from death and fifty more from life. If only he could have parked the helicopter closer!
The clouds grew more ominous overhead, and the quiet snow gradually waned out as driving pellets of hail took its place. Even as the icy stones pelted his back, he kept moving. The hailstones grew as big as apricot pits and hammered into his back like the heavens were playing him like a keyboard. Still, he dragged himself on, knowing his brother would be a lot more than unconscious if he stopped. Onward, he pressed, as the hail reduced itself to the size of gardening seeds and then stopped entirely. He looked up for a moment at the helicopter--he didn't see any damage from this distance. The helicopter--salvation--was mere steps away now. He kept his eyes locked on it as he drew closer, and at long last he stood in front of the door. He strained to hold the boy to him with one arm as he touched the frigid latch, thankful he had at least brought gloves in his haste. With much effort, he hoisted himself and his brother into the aircraft and shut the door to the cold wasteland.
He stood still for a moment, shivering, weary, eyes nearly drooping shut from fatigue, the weight of his brother pulling at his back and begging him to hunch over. Yet he would not drop him. The boy probably wouldn't be able to stand yet. He stood; his shivers waned, he nearly drifted into sleep, until he heard a quiet noise from the child and the tiny body began to move weakly. He looked down; saw the flutter of the little eyelashes as the stormy-sea eyes struggled to open, heard the incoherent moans as the boy tried to speak. The elder sat, still holding him close, and shushed him.
"Big brother," said the child feebly, his speech barely intelligible, the cold still slowing his thoughts and nerves. "I thought you had aba--"
The elder put his free hand to the younger's mouth almost fearfully. "Hush. Don't try to talk. You got hypothermia out there. We're going to the hospital."
The boy lay limply draped across his brother's lap even as the elder unwrapped his arms from the younger. It would be worse to let him freeze than to let him sit with him. The cotton shirt was still cold and wet and it couldn't have been helping the situation. The elder brother helped the exhausted child out of his shirt and draped his coat over the boy along with the small blanket kept in the back of the cabin. He lay the discarded shirt and the soaked vest next to the small space heater, picked up the boy carefully, and sat back down in the pilot's seat, buckling the seatbelt around the two of them. The boy's small frame was still cold, and the elder brother shivered a little as he pressed the cold little back against the flat of his chest, draping his locket over the boy to stay out of the way and hang next to his. He started the throttle and felt the boy wince weakly with the loud roar, then he fell still as his brother slipped the earmuffs over his head.
And there it was again. That feeling that they were all each other had. Always, when they were children, the younger one clung to him, in fear or in sorrow or in simple affection, and he would hold the boy--even when he himself was a child, a scared and lonely child, and had little power to protect his sibling. He would hold him without a word to the other boy, sometimes stroke his hair, knowing even when he couldn't do anything, his brother would be there for him and he for his brother. He held his brother on his lap wordlessly, as he always had, only half paying attention to the controls.
The child clumsily pushed off the earmuffs in an attempt to speak once his thoughts were more organized. "Brother?" he forced out. "I'm glad you came."
"Mm," the elder grunted. "You thought I wouldn't?"
"I was starting to worry," whispered the boy.
The elder's brow furrowed again, his eyelids drooping in concern. "Don't ever worry," he said. "I won't let anything..."
And there he trailed off. Empty promises might have satisfied his brother when they were children, but now they would only disappoint the both of them. Who was he to promise he'd never let anything happen to his brother? If he couldn't control that sort of thing now, with all the resources and money he had, he could never control it. He couldn't promise it. The prospect of breaking a promise to his brother terrified him almost as much as the thought of his brother's death did. He wasn't all-powerful--far from it. His brother kept him sane, kept him human, but gave him a weakness; as long as he existed, as long as they cared about each other, he was to his enemies a tool to destroy him. And even if something did happen to his brother, he himself was not immortal. Living with an Achilles' heel and facing the constant threats together was worth infinitely more to him than living alone with his possessions and the threat against himself with no one to share it with.
"I promise I'll always be there when you need me," he finished.
The boy lifted his head weakly and smiled at his brother. He opened his mouth and struggled to speak once more, but was silenced by his brother's hushing finger. "Shhh. Rest. We're almost there."
As the boy shut his eyes, the elder brother turned his attention from the controls for a second to flick open the lockets and look at them. Two halves of the same photo stared up at him--a photo of the two as children, playing chess, both smiling. He remembered just before they had played that game, he had made a promise to his brother. He had taken the younger boy's hand and said, "Someday, my brother, I will be rich and powerful, and I will give you the world," and the little one smiled at him and clung to him racked with the giggles typical of a three-year-old. He almost broke a smile remembering the sparkle in the child's eyes as he believed those lofty words.
He examined the locket for a moment longer before returning his eyes to the windshield. He didn't have to give his brother the world, he thought. Maybe he was the world to his brother.