His mouth was desert-dry—his limbs ached—his hair was matted beyond reckoning...what a LONG sleep. And what a strange dream he'd had: riding in a helicopter with friends who had saved him, with people he barely knew or didn't know at all, all the way across the Pacific Ocean, no pit stops or anything. (No wonder he had to pee so badly.)
What else was strange...not out of the ordinary, because Niisama appeared in most of his dreams—but it was strange that in this dream, Niisama hadn't pushed him or abandoned him or laughed at him or gaped at him hollow-eyed. Niisama had smiled at him. And no, it hadn't been little Niisama from the orphanage, either. It was a tall, grown-up, and smiling Niisama.
He turned over in his bed, still too sleepy to open his eyes, and felt a tug upon his neck. Oh, yeah...his locket. One of these days he'd choke on it if he kept wearing it to bed. But he had to, 'cause it reminded him...when was the last time he'd checked on Niisama? If he'd been asleep so long, it was surely time. He stirred, turning over again. And ran right into a body.
His breath hitched. His eyes flew open. Who was in his bed?!
Niisama…?!
...Maybe he had fallen asleep with Niisama again.
But that wasn't right...this was his bed. And Niisama was in normal clothes, not pajamas—and facedown on top of the comforter, not faceup and prostrate beneath a white sheet, like a corpse. He was even wearing shoes.
Was he still dreaming, then? But suddenly, beyond all other senses, smell assaulted him. Dirt. Iron. Mold. Fear.
a dungeon
He shuddered.
Niisama lay motionless, apart from the swell of deep, stolid breaths. Maybe...accidentally...he had turned Niisama over in his sleep. Maybe...naïvely...before that, he had dressed him up. Pretended he was wakeful. Dreamt of Niisama's smile—dreamt of a helicopter. Of friends.
But the smell of the dungeon did not recede. And he hadn't dreamt of such a stench.
And so, feeling dirt and iron and mold, and fear, he reached out a hand—a filthy hand, he could see that now in the seeping daylight—and lay it on Niisama's shoulder.
"Niisama…?"
He shook the shoulder, twice and again.
"Niisama?"
Niisama didn't stir.
...
How many times? And what did he expect?
He drew his hand into his chest and squeezed his eyes shut against the rusty, salty tears that freed themselves then. He was thirsty; he had to use the bathroom so badly. At least Niisama was still breathing. He had to call Niisama's nurse. But he needed to lie down a minute more...he couldn't get up yet.
"What's wrong…?"
His eyes flew open again, and bulged.
Niisama had turned his head—still buried under tangled hair and a haphazard arm—and was looking at him.
Looking at him.
"Are you…" Niisama coughed, swallowed, and grimaced. "God...were we...how long have…" He bent his own filthy hand to rub his eyes, then he looked at him again. "Are you okay? Are you crying?"
Niisama looked at him, looked at him, looked at him.
"Niisama," he blubbered, "are you mad at me?"
Niisama woke up even more. "Why would I be—"
"Are you real?"
"Am I…oh." Niisama seemed to understand then. He shifted and propped himself up with one arm. He tugged out the locket that hung around his neck; he popped it open and held it out to him. He smiled.
"Yeah," he said hoarsely. "I'm real. Here's proof."
The brothers staggered to the bathroom and took turns showering; Niisama helped Mokuba out of his soiled clothes, found them clean sweatpants and shirts, scalded himself with hot water; and someone had changed the sheets in the interim, and Mokuba lay on them already and was already asleep; and cauterized and fresh and still drifting, Niisama collapsed next to Mokuba and blacked out.
When he woke again, he didn't know how long he'd slept, for he didn't know when he'd started. This woozy lilt between somnambulance and death was his life now...it didn't alarm him. Somewhere dark and distant, a clock chimed. It chimed again. He came to notice the person asleep beside him.
Only one person had such messy black hair. This was...Mokuba. His brother. This was Mokuba's bed...Mokuba's room, wasn't it…? How had he ended up here?
Winding among locks of hair was a string...a string tied to an unnatural shape. A rectangle. Brown. Like a little card…
...A little Duel Monsters card.
His arm was asleep but his numb fingers shot up and latched onto the locket around his own neck.
Good God. Pegasus. Yuugi. Blood. Fire. A Duel Disk—a precipice—a helicopter—
A Duel Monsters card with Mokuba's face on it—
In a flurry of sheets he clambered to his knees and shook his brother sharply.
"Mokuba!...Mokuba!"
"Huh…?"
"Oh, thank God!" Thank Yuugi, or the other Yuugi. Thank them all.
Mokuba rolled over, his hair a rat's nest, his pajamas wadded and crumpled. "Niisama…?"
He nodded, a wild gesture. "Yes! It's me!"
"Sorry…" Mokuba sat up. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, forcing himself to wake up. "I'm sorry. Did I sleep too long?"
Mokuba wore an odd look—disconcerting—one he couldn't place.
"No," he insisted, trying to smile, "no, no. Go back to sleep." What was that look? What was the gnawing in his stomach, triggered by the mere sight of it?
"Are you sure?" Mokuba frowned, dodging eye contact, drawing in his shoulders. One curled hand guarded his collarbone. He looked...he looked afraid.
Afraid of what? Afraid of him?
The creature that gnawed at his stomach gnawed right through it, and the bottom fell out, and the floodwaters of guilt rose and filled him entirely. Yes.
Yes, afraid of him.
And he knew...
...there was no way to ever make up for what he'd done. No way.
...
Without wherewithal or words or the right to offer anything, he bowed his head. He watched his own locket, swaying gently on its string, grazing his heart.
"Niisama?"
He could not look at Mokuba. But he murmured, "Mhm?"
"Will you stay here?...While I sleep?"
If Mokuba was afraid of him, that was a strange question to ask. But he had no right to refute or refuse...as badly as he wished to die, or to drift again, to send himself and these dreadful feelings out to sea, he had no right.
He still could not look at Mokuba. But he asked, in drowning undertones, "Is that what you want?"
Will that help you feel safe? Will you feel better? Will you forgive—
"Yeah."
He still could not look at Mokuba. But he nodded, for want of his voice. Dark, astral shapes bloomed upon the white sheets. He supposed they fell from him, but his vision swam, he couldn't be sure.
"Are you crying?"
A hand, too warm from too many hours buried in sleep, lay against his cheek, and a thumb brushed a tear from his eye. But this only encouraged more tears to take its place. And he held his breath but his chest burned; and he pressed his eyes shut but his tears were hot and vicious and not fair, not fair at all.
No, he didn't want this. He didn't want to manipulate Mokuba anymore. He was supposed to comfort Mokuba, not the other way around. But he felt the hug then, and he had no right to refuse it, so instead he latched onto his brother and hugged with all his might because Mokuba had surely forgotten all that he did, and when he remembered he wouldn't want another hug, and this would be his first and last one, one more than he deserved.
But Mokuba always surprised him. For Mokuba remembered, and Mokuba pulled back and smiled at him with shining eyes and said, "Welcome back, Niisama."
And so, at last, he looked at Mokuba. And he said, through his tears, "I'm back."
END
Doctor's Note: The Kaiba Bros' reunion at the end of Duelist Kingdom is joyous and uplifting, but I do think about how hard it must have been for (manga canon) Seto and Mokuba to rebuild trust afterward. These small scenes explore the very beginning; those first steps. And after Duelist Kingdom, they would've been exhausted!
Please let me know any thoughts, and thank you for reading! - Dr. MP