Now it is important to mention that I do not include details because they are glamorous. I hate details. I include details because they are real. They may be unpleasant, and if you are offended in any way, I suggest you either remain open-minded, accepting the details as they come, or discontinue reading altogether, but I do not apologize. I do not write any of this to please, and I do not write to disgust. I write because I am obligated to do so—because I am mad—and because, if I didn't, I would never forgive myself.
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"So he's six," Kei repeated, mildly amused. "That's interesting. I wouldn't have guessed he'd be so sure about his age."
"Is that not normal?" Yami tried to keep the urgency from his voice.
"No, no," the other man objected, "it's fine. It just means that he knows exactly where he is in his life. It's fascinating—the almost selective nature of it." There was a pause over the line where the psychologist sighed. "And he's acting like a six-year-old as well?"
"He's easily distracted," Yami explained, coiling the phone cord around his fingers. "He spends a lot of his time playing with toys."
"Has he said anything about the incident?"
Yami didn't know when it had come to be called an 'incident.' He considered it more of an attack. "No," he replied. "He's aware that he's in pain—I can see that—but he has not said anything about what happened or how it made him feel." He hesitated. "He doesn't remember anything, Kei."
"I understand," the doctor said. "I was only wondering if he'd mentioned anything to you—perhaps something had come back to him."
"What do you propose I do, should the topic arise?" Yami's concern was apparent.
"I suppose," Kei mused, leaning back in the chair in his cramped office," if he broaches the subject, he wants to talk about it. Should he mention something, I advise that you ask him questions—what he may remember—and walk him through whatever emotion that it incites in him. Never ignore the issue should it come up."
Yami sighed heavily and rubbed his neck.
"Are you beginning to regret your decision," Kei asked suddenly, his voice sounding impossibly removed over the phone line.
"No," Yami replied firmly, needing not a moment to gather his thoughts. "I'm just not positive that I'd like the issue to come up."
"Well if it does, it means that Yugi has decided he's comfortable enough to speak about it to the person he's closest to—the person he knows he can trust—who he knows will take care of him, and protect him from his fears. If the discussion arises, I assure you, it will be a very good sign of recovery. It will be his first step in facing his demons and moving on."
Yami blinked, hung his head. "No one should have to deal with this," said at last, his voice tense and angry.
"No," the man agreed. "But victims are capable of reclaiming their lives. It requires work, and dedication, but it is possible. I have very high hopes for Yugi. I can tell that he's a fighter."
Yami shivered. Those same words had been divulged to him before. If more than one person saw it, it had to mean something. It had to be true. "Yes," Yami replied, "he has to be."
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Yugi, having regained his appetite since coming home, had eaten several meals, and now came time for him to move his bowels. It hurt. He cried. Solomon was dealing with it best he could. Yami had left the bathroom, lost, out of place, nothing to offer in the way of comfort. He didn't know what to do.
He hadn't planned on this. It should have been in his mind all along, but he just hadn't taken it into account. He had nothing to give his Yugi to soothe the pain and the fear. He could only imagine what it was like to feel yourself being torn apart from the inside out—wounds that wouldn't heal.
Yugi was crying. He was scared. He didn't know what to do either, and all of his available energies were focused on desperately holding on to whatever scrap of reason was left within his being as his grandfather tried to console him.
Yami, sitting in the hall just outside the door, braced himself, and with every one of Yugi's strangled cries, he felt his heart break in his chest. He hated the feeling of utter uselessness in the face of his son's pain, but he couldn't go back into that room. He would go mad, he knew, so he endured Yugi's weeping from out here in the hall, feeling selfish, feeling vain. He buried his face in his hands. Nothing. He could do nothing. He wanted to scream.
Moments passed, Yugi's cries softened to whimpers, and Solomon joined him in the hallway, a distraught expression in his features. He knelt to speak to Yami in a hushed tone. "I have to take him to a doctor today," he said. "This can't go on. He's bleeding pretty badly. We have to deal with this now."
"I'll stay with him," Yami offered, his desire for medical attention to be brought to Yugi overcoming his great fear of being useless. "Call a doctor."
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"I spoke with our family doctor over the phone," Solomon explained. "He called in a prescription for a mild laxative to a nearby drugstore so that we don't have to go see him. I'm going to go pick it up—do you need anything?"
Yami was sitting on the floor of the bathroom, his arms around Yugi, who clung to him now between throes of pain. "Not that I can think of," he replied. Then, softer, directed to the little one curled up against his chest, "Do you want your grandfather to get you something while he's at the store?"
Yugi stirred, his hands clutching tighter the fabric of Yami's shirt. "Candy," he mumbled, his voice weak.
Solomon smiled. "As you wish," he said, winked at Yami, and left.
Yami's gaze lingered in the doorway where the elder Mutou had stood, his fingers absently grazing through the boy's hair, stroking, petting. Affection—this curious thing—moving in Yami's hands like instinct toward his beautiful son.
Yugi groaned, buried his face further into his father's chest, reveling in touch, grimacing at the feel of warmth—body temperature—between his legs. The blood had run over, undoubtedly making a mess of his clothes. It made him feel filthy, but he didn't move. He was too tired and too ashamed to move. He whimpered.
"It's okay," Yami breathed into his hair, sensing his discomfort. His hand was running up and down the boy's back, smoothing that one line over and over again, hoping it was of some comfort, hoping it helped. "I know it hurts," he said.
Yugi sat up with effort, rubbing at his eyes, his color flushed. "Daddy," he whispered, having nothing to say but feeling the need to assure his presence. The unspoken question needed an answer—what's wrong with me?
"Your body has been hurt very badly," Yami explained carefully. "It's still recovering, and it will take time." He paused, searching Yugi's eyes to determine whether he was ready. It was difficult to tell, but the moment seemed right, so he plunged blindly forward into the subject. "Do you remember getting hurt?"
Yugi hesitated, the emotions forming quietly under the surface, welling from the coolness of the shadowed places in his mind where the wounds were fresh. "I remember," he began, drawing words from the silence, "getting cut." He swallowed hard, his wide eyes sad as he stared up at Yami. "I remember some man cutting me," he explained. "Daddy…why did some man cut me?"
Yami sighed, his thoughts frantic, searching for a reason his boy would understand. He needed to be honest. He needed to be careful. And gentle. And simple. "That man," he said, "was a very selfish man. And what he did…what he did to you was wrong." His gaze held Yugi's urgently. This was very important. This was very painful.
"Why did he do that?" There were large tears wetting the boy's eyes.
Yami shifted—hesitated—reached out and held his son's hands. "Because sometimes, when someone is selfish, he will act cruelly to others…since he is unhappy and he wants to make other people unhappy, too."
Tears shed from Yugi's lower lids and raced down his full, soft cheeks. His lip trembled when he whispered so quietly it broke Yami's heart, "Why?"
Yami hated this. He had to say it. "Because his life…hurts him very much. He feels very angry because of it. And he wants to take his anger out on others. And that man took his anger out on you." He wiped a tear from the boy's chin. "He should never have done that to you, honey."
He paused to observe how his term of endearment had been received. Yugi was obviously taking it in slowly, trying it on for size, turning it over and over in his hand, admiring it. Honey. Sticky-sweet and warm like summer and fireflies and climbing trees. It would do very nicely.
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Solomon brought back the prescription. The label said to take one capsule with food. The doctor had said to drink plenty of water, as well. Yugi obeyed his grandfather's instructions religiously. Solomon also brought back candy—Skittles and Hershey's and a number of brands of teeth-rotting concoctions.
Yami wanted to shower his son with all the sweets in the world. He wanted to bundle Yugi up in rich purple cloths and lather him with good-smelling lotions and completely purge all the hurt from his young life. He wanted to surround the boy with all of his favorite toys and foods and keep him happy and oblivious of the pain he was in.
Yami could do none of this. He had to mind his son's sugar intake and let him play and walk on his own—let him limp, let him cry in pauses between videos and Tonka truck sessions. Yami hated feeling helpless. And no matter how badly he wanted to, he couldn't scoop his baby up and protect him from everything.
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After dinner was bedtime. Yami and Solomon faithfully escorted Yugi to his room. They cleared a path to his bed through the mess of toys. They changed him. They tucked him in, kissed his sweet forehead goodnight, pulled the comforter close around his small form.
"Daddy?"
Yami grinned though his eyes were weary. "Yes?"
"Daddy, will you stay," he asked. "I don't feel good."
"Of course, honey," he replied, shooting Solomon an amused smile before turning to climb into the small bed.
Mr. Mutou turned out the light. "Good night, you two," he whispered at the door, beaming fondly on his boys.
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Yugi was in distress. It was obvious far before he even woke up. Yami sensed it in the restless tossing and turning beside him, his arm draped across a writhing frame. The sheets felt hotter. The blankets had been discarded.
Yami's eyes snapped open, all the senses of his more unconscious self screaming that something was terribly wrong. Yugi was in pain. Or he was having a nightmare. Or both. Yami forced himself to wake, leaned cautiously forward.
"Yugi?"
There was no response—more restlessness.
"Yugi, wake up!"
The boy beside him stirred, perspiration clinging to his warm skin. He shivered. He moaned. "Dadeee," he murmured.
"Honey, what's wrong?" The alarm was clear in Yami's voice.
"I don't feel good."
Yami panicked. "Do you need to go to the bathroom," he asked, "or are you going to be sick?"
The boy whimpered. "I don't know."
Yami got to his feet. "Come on," he commanded, half lifting Yugi from the bed and half pulling him. "We'll go to the bathroom."
"Daddy, I'm scared," Yugi whined, his feet unsteady beneath him.
Yami held him up firmly, disturbed at how warm the skin of his arms felt through the pajamas. "It'll be okay," he said. He didn't know that it would be okay. He didn't know what was happening, and he didn't know how to deal with it. He needed to get his son to the bathroom, but he also wanted Solomon there, because he didn't think he could handle this alone.
"Daddy?"
"It's okay."
He couldn't go to Solomon's room—the bathroom was nearer—and he had the distinct feeling that there was a very sick child in his arms who needed to be within close range of a commode in a very short time. Idly, he wished that Solomon would wake on his own, but he knew it was unlikely that anything short of a natural disaster would rouse the old man from his deep sleep.
This was a natural disaster.
He flicked the light switch on, shepherding Yugi into the small room. "Tell me," he said, "how do you feel sick? Can you tell daddy which part feels sick?"
"My tummy hurts," he explained.
Well, that was vague. Yami needed to know the particulars of Yugi's condition—which part of him was going to have to be dealt with in a few short moments.
"Are you going to throw up or do you need to sit down on the toilet," he asked.
Yugi seemed confused, his face pale, his eyes searching, tired and feverish. "Sit down," he decided at last.
Yami helped him, feeling conspicuous, feeling awkward again, unsure of where to sit or what to do with his hands or if he should say anything—what he should say—and the air smelled like blood. Nothing was happening. Yami didn't know what to do.
"Daddy, it hurts."
"I know, honey. Be strong." Yugi looked exhausted, his eyes threatening to close. Yami held his hands. "Yugi," he said, wondering if he should be getting a response, wondering what should be happening.
The boy hesitated, looked as if he were about to say something, exhaled sharply. His eyes got wide. He was scared. He started to throw up. Yami thought quickly, grabbing the small trashcan by the sink and holding it up to the boy. It helped little—the stuff was mostly down Yugi's chest by that time.
Yugi sobbed between tremors of retching, terrified of what was happening to him, shivering, and Yami did his best to be of comfort and sweep the bangs out of his face. That awkward feeling again. It was vomit. It was diarrhea.
It was not that he was entirely embarrassed by Yugi's bodily functions. He had just never given them much thought. But here was his boy, coming apart freely now—pouring—from both ends, and Yami was powerless to do anything but stand by and hold his hands between bouts of wrenching pain and nausea.
Eventually everything stopped. Eventually Yugi's body succeeded in pushing out whatever had offended it. Eventually whatever food had been in his system was now elsewhere. He sat there in his filth, fighting to stay awake, suddenly feeling empty beyond reason and impossibly tired.
Wordlessly, Yami cleaned him—choked on his feeling of awkwardness and wiped clean the various parts of his boy that were filthy—places on his hikari's body he never thought he'd have need to touch—carefully stripped his clothes and hurriedly straightened the bathroom before returning to Yugi's room to dress him in clean pajamas.
"Do you want to sleep on the bathroom floor," he asked.
Yugi whimpered but said nothing, half asleep where he stood.
"It's okay—we'll sleep in the bed."
Together, exhausted and in need of a shower, they climbed under the covers once more. Yugi was instantly unconscious, weary from the peculiar battle he'd just fought. Yami stayed up a little longer, tense where he lay, ready to make the mad dash back to the bathroom if need be.
To his dismay, he felt himself beginning to slip away. He couldn't fight it. His grip tightened around his son—as if he'd also slip from Yami's control as soon he fell asleep. It was hopeless. He was tired and terrified and utterly spent. He begrudgingly succumbed.
It was then he realized he'd handled this little episode completely on his own.