Love Is Beautiful No Matter What Its Form
Disclaimer: I do NOT own Yugioh
Rating: M for incest theme, yaoi
Warning: cutting, suicidal thoughts
Authoress' Note:
A close friend of mine said I was not only Kaiba's darkness but also Mokuba's hope, and I wanted to show both characteristics of myself through this piece. I love all my writings equally because they are like daughters to me. I put so much of myself into them, except this one is probably most like me, and this is hindsight lol. I've always identified myself as Kaiba, but I didn't realize until she pointed it out that I also have Mokuba inside of me, I just couldn't see it at the time. Indeed, Kaiba bleeds by nature, and Mokuba heals by nature. By bringing these two together, I hope that they will balance each other's elements and reach a new state of being. After all, they compliment each other so well. The relationship between Kaiba and Mokuba has always intrigued me because I thought it was one of the most beautiful things in the world. The self-sacrifice, the mutual understanding, the demented love… sigh. Everything about them brings tears to my eyes, and I hope I can make you feel for them the way I've experienced it by writing this story.
The expression on Mokuba's face as realization struck with full force when he found out the truth about his niisama's somewhat morbid custom was something that Kaiba could never forget.
But it was an addiction that couldn't be stopped if he tried a million times, not even for the most important person in the world, because he just simply couldn't, it wasn't possible.
Mokuba stood by him over the years, just like always, understanding, accepting, like a guardian angel. It was such a Mokuba thing to do, but Mokuba was also hurting, breaking…
Each additional line on his arm torn away a shred of innocence from his baby brother, and the knowledge of that almost killed him, almost, but it didn't, although sometimes he wished that it did.
It didn't, because his knife was here, along with Mokuba himself, and that was all he needed to survive. Although surviving and living are very different things.
Mokuba turned eighteen last week. He matured, grew wiser, sadder, but his unconditional love for his niisama never wavered once. It only grew stronger, it didn't make any sense.
He allowed Mokuba to step up to the position of president as a silent thank you, because he thought he should, because he couldn't express how he felt in any other way.
Kaiba Corp would be just fine, after all, Mokuba learned from the best. The teen took it however as if he was given the most precious gift in the universe, not so much the company, but his trust.
The decision felt right, for the first time in his life, he did something right. He breathed a sigh of relief. Mokuba would be a better CEO than he could ever be, and he couldn't help but to feel proud.
As for himself, he would be checking every now and again to make sure everything was in order. He knew that it was not a necessity. He didn't doubt Mokuba's ability, but he did have control issues.
Research and design would be enough to keep him occupied anyways. But Mokuba the mother hen insisted that the most important thing right now was for Seto to take care of himself.
Mokuba suggested pills, therapy, rehab, but he refused, claiming that he was living proof that none of the above worked. The teen's shoulders slumped, but he flashed him a big, brave smile.
He wished he had as much faith in himself the way Mokuba did. He also envied the teen's ability to fake happiness for him, because he couldn't do even that for the one that he loved the most.
He just didn't see anything in himself that was worth saving, or more importantly, worth living for. He didn't get the point. His life seemed so insubstantial in his eyes.
That didn't mean he was going down without a fight. The whole purpose of cutting was to live after all, not die, although one day he might slip, give into the pain. He couldn't bear thinking about that.
He was a bastard who never deserved a second chance at living anyway. But Mokuba saw something in him that was worth loving, worth fighting for, and he held onto that with an unsteady grip.
Until he pushed his only love so far that he wouldn't come back, or better still, run away from the monster that he was, but he knew somehow that the younger version of himself was just as stubborn.
Mokuba refused to give up on him no matter what the circumstance. He hinted that at the rate that he was going, it wouldn't matter anyway. But the teen begged to differ, holding his ground steadfastly.
Unconditional love, probably the only constant thing in his chaotic life, and he guessed that the best way to repay Mokuba's loyalty was to keep breathing, keep fighting, and that was what he did.
If nothing else, because only survival mattered. He kept on surviving, even if he looked and felt like the walking dead, he kept at it, mindlessly, going on auto-pilot, like a machine.
But things didn't work as well when broken, and he was dysfunctional. So he cut, line after line, all along his arm, and it made all the difference in the world. He could move on, if only for a little while.
He never intended for Mokuba to see, but he saw anyway, when he was barely a teen. He swore to protect his baby brother always, but nowadays, from what he asked. Himself?
It was too ironic. Yet he was thinking about this with such cold indifference, because he had no other choice. It was the only thing he knew how to do, to shut down completely.
It wasn't because he didn't have a heart. He felt so much, once upon a time, but it wasn't until later on that he understood that he felt too much. The kind of love he felt shouldn't have been there at all.
Especially seeing Mokuba now, all grown up and no longer a child. Just one look, one smile, one touch, and his will would crumble. He would fall in love with his baby brother all over again.
He didn't know that it was possible for Mokuba to be even more beautiful as an adult than he was as a child, but it was a nightmare came true. To him, this was too much of a curse to be a blessing.
Mokuba was usually roaming around the house in a knee length shirt, with a work tie loosely hanging around his slender neck. His hair would be tied back in a ponytail, wild and luscious black as always.
Mokuba was tall, fair and slim. He lost most of his baby fat during his teenage years and his figure was perfect. There was just something ridiculously sensual about the way he moved.
But nothing could compare with Mokuba's eyes, stormy blue and slightly slanted with age, because the passion burning in them when he smiled at his niisama blazed so fiercely it took his breath away.
God he loved him so much, he could never stop loving him like this, and fuck it hurt, this sick, twisted, damned love, he wished that he could just go and kill himself, it would benefit them both.
But he couldn't, because he couldn't bear hurting Mokuba like that, to just get out of his life forever. Even if the way he loved him now will hurt him just as much if it was thrown into the open.
He didn't know why he chose to fall in love with Mokuba of all people, but it wasn't a choice, it was never a choice. He had loved his baby brother for as long as he knew, he was born to love him.
Just not like this, not the way he was doing it, at night, when he tossed and turned with agonizing need. His breath would hitch every time Mokuba came too near, it was pure torture, however bittersweet.
He felt like throwing up everything inside of him and dug his nails into his scalp. He wanted to blame his misguided distortions on a dead man. The thing was, said man was gone, but was his influence?
It couldn't have been. It wasn't even about Gozaburo anymore, maybe it had been in the buried past. But now, he could hate, abuse and destroy all by himself. He didn't need Gozaburo to be a monster.
Mokuba thought the reason he cut was because of their adopted father, and didn't understand why he would honour him in such a way. He didn't know the true reason behind his dirty habit.
Beside the fact that Mokuba was the problem, there were also other purposes that cutting served, some of them he couldn't even explain himself. He just knew it would work for him in the end.
Whenever he felt like he loved so much that his heart couldn't contain it anymore, although he wasn't sure if it was the love or the pain, he cut, and the physical pain numbed out everything else.
Whenever he felt like dying because he just couldn't live like this anymore, he cut, because that way he could pretend that he was bleeding to death, and the notion was heavenly.
Whenever he felt like the living dead because he got so numb he couldn't feel, he cut, and the crimson red flowing out of his veins would remind him that he was still alive, that he could still bleed.
Whenever he felt like jumping his younger brother and the lust drove him crazy, he cut, for ever daring to hurt Mokuba like that, just the mere thought of it made him fitting for the punishment.
Whenever he felt like there was nothing to do because he didn't know what to do with himself, he cut, out of pure boredom or desperation, the sight of blood was distinctive, nice, pretty even.
He didn't know which of those applied to him now, but he was doing it, and it felt too good. His senses sharpened immediately, he could concentrate on his work once more. He had stopped thinking.
He never bothered to tend to the cuts afterwards, just chucked plasters over them, pretending that they were never there in the first place. Sometimes they bled through his shirt, but he couldn't care less.
It was Mokuba who bandaged him usually. He didn't want him to bother, but was secretly glad that he did. It was one of the rare times that the teen paid complete attention to him rather than Kaiba Corp.
Mokuba would scowl at him softly, playfully, but never disapproving. The teen's face was always carefully neutral to mask his pain, and he was grateful, welcomed the ignorance with open arms.
Although Mokuba would go on about some psychological bullshit in regards to him not acknowledging the presence of his wounds, always turning a blind eye, etcetera and etcetera.
Something about if the wounds were neglected for too long they'd start to become infected and poison the bloodstream, slowly killing him. He'd kick off not too long after that.
Mokuba was wise, and just because he chose to ignore the teen didn't mean he didn't hear what was being said. It was a metaphor for the wounds deep down inside him that couldn't be seen.
It was a painfully accurate description really. He never took care of his emotional wounds over the years, because his life wasn't important at the time. Mokuba was his world, and that, he took care of.
So the wounds crusted, but he didn't heal, physically or otherwise. He heard from somewhere that the past always caught one up as one ran faster, but he avoided his demons for as long as he could.
So the wounds would bleed underneath their scabs, weeping, hurting, because they were so deep they never healed, because they were never given the proper time and care they needed to heal.
So the wounds spread their infection, and there was poison in his blood, everywhere. He guessed that he would eventually breathe no more because of it, but that wouldn't be such a bad thing after all.
He wiped the knife gingerly with a tissue and hid it away. After making sure he wasn't bleeding excessively like the last time he did this, he rolled down his sleeve with a smirk.
He definitely picked a bad time to wallow in depression, Mokuba would be home soon. He shifted his position on the bed, fixed his posture, and retrieved his reading glasses from the bedside table.
Putting them on, he turned his attention back to the laptop. Everything was fine and he was ready. Mokuba would never know that he was this unwell, although a part of him almost wished that he did.
