Chapter 4

"All right, my little…exuberant ones. I don't care what you did or who did what. Tonight, you each get to clean one bathroom." Mr. Guy handed them pails and mops with a smirk.

That wasn't fair! How could someone punish others without even knowing the story? Mokuba frowned, about to begin a round of protesting. Sven, however, merely stalked out with his supplies without ever glancing at Mokuba.

The young Kaiba made no move to leave and do as the orphanage owner demanded. Something important was rattling around in his brain, and slowly, as the thought took its form, twining into every crevice of his body like that of a red-eyed snake, Mokuba knew what his brother would expect him to do.

Seto never stood around and let others boss him about. Now, Mokuba had to be strong and willing to follow his brother's example. Even if his brother were not aware of how Mokuba was taking him for an example, the boy knew his brother would nod in approval…if Kaiba were able.

Mr. Guy looked over at the boy, a flicker of wrath crossing his face. "What are you still doing here, orphan? Get to work or I'll make you do more."

Taking a deep breath, wishing the air contained courage along with its living qualities, Mokuba tried to be reasonable. Seto would not want him to sound like a petulant child complaining of a task. "What you said is not fair. I didn't—"

"What part of 'I don't care' did you not understand? Are you inferring that after all this time you have spent receiving a good education you do not even know how various words work together? No wonder your brother could no longer stand to have you around him and retreated within himself."

The silence was not even parted by the sound of breathing.

Absolutely stiffened, Mokuba finally said, "Take that back."

Mr. Guy never seemed to realize with how tightly a coiled spring he was dealing. Without a break in the momentum—Mokuba's insert and the silence seemed to be there because the orphanage owner wanted the words to sink in and make the boy react—he proceeded with his torrent of acid rain, "I would want to get away from an idiotic brother myself. It is not surprising you were never adopted before—your brother had to force a deal to get you taken."

Somethingabout Mokuba's face resembled that of a cracked porcelain vase. Mr. Guy, continuing to relax in his chair, leered as he added, "Oh, yes, Kaiba Mokuba, I know all about you. Maybe you weren't at my orphanage before, but I have the record of your life at my disposal, and I will use it as I see fit."

While he had been all potential energy turning kinetic before, some variable in the equation had changed, and Mokuba turned back to liquid emotion, all desire for justice softened like ice dumped into a fire.

"That is not true."

But his words lacked conviction and defiance even to himself; instead, the voice was a child's melancholic wail on how unfair the world was. Hearing that tone himself instantly made Mokuba tighten once more. His brother would hate to hear such a whiny sound.

Mr. Guy was observing all the reactions with a bemused expression, infuriating Mokuba even more by his lack of sitting up straight or even giving the boy his complete attention. Offhandedly, he looked out the window before turning to Mokuba once more.

"You know it's true or you wouldn't have such a strong reaction."

More silence stifled the screaming of Mokuba's heart. Seeing the orphan had no comeback for this, Mr. Guy smiled—not a smirk, but a genuine smile.

Finally straightening, Mr. Guy went to organizing something on his desk as his mind took him to more important matters. "Now, I'd advise you to get working before I give you more tasks to do. If you don't want to feel as though you are being punished for something you didn't do, just think of it as payment for your staying here unable to be adopted for a month; you have to do chores to be useful and earn your keep. At least there Sven beats you. Or else, just think of it as being where you truly belong and what you should be doing had your brother not wasted away his life trying to help you along."

Cold fury was coursing through Mokuba's body like his blood had just melted free from his frozen veins, and even as his eyes gathered the ice that his brother's normally held and retained to look upon the world with the same feeling Kaiba believed to receive from it; and even as his hands accumulated the pent-up wrath and natural-formed hardened fists, the orphanage owner just lolled back in his chair and gazed at Kaiba Mokuba amusedly. One finger tapped his cheekbone as he rested easily, greasy hair ticking in tendrils to the same beat of his heavy digit.

That isn't true—Seto didn't waste his life—I know he's not like he is because of me. Even in his mind, Mokuba's racing thoughts were staggered. But one thing was certain even for his shocked brain to absorb and defend: Seto had wanted him and had poised the deal in order to keep Mokuba with him.

The clang from the dropped pail echoed in the quiet room, but as the brother-less boy prepared to move, forward or backward—uncertain himself of which he would choose—Mr. Guy, with incredible alacrity, had a heavy metal rod in one hand tapping the desk where his finger had been formerly.

"Come closer and you'll meet the end of this pipe." Within the silent room, no need was there for the man to raise his voice. "Now, get cleaning the bathroom, little encumbrance." His grin never reached his cold, frozen eyes—

—eyes Mokuba was not certain how they varied from Seto's, only that the two could not possibly be similar—

—and as Mokuba left in a whirlwind, he called softly after the boy, "Oh, and I wouldn't waste too much time on the bathroom, little hindrance, since you have so many other chores to do tonight."

The line between father and brother is usually quite an obvious one. Seldom are there gray lines in which a brother can be taken as a father. But, as with everything else in my damned life, even that was disordered and full of confusion.

No doubt it was all my own doing. After all, I had told him that myself after the episode of the park.

Just the one word is enough to bring back the exact feelings and senses of what had happened that day. Dusk was falling, turning everything the light touched into gold and a cowardly yellow it could almost be called lily-white. Bird calls were growing fewer and fewer, and each flap of their wings illustrating their intelligence of trying to escape the area that never turned a thought to them anyway. At least they had learned of the cold contempt of the world and ceased to rely on others to do anything for them.

After all my struggles from earlier in my life, all I ever wanted was some small respite. I didn't have any parents; why should I be forced to become one now and so soon? So was it any wonder that I didn't follow my brother when he left, but instead decided he might like some time alone? Or maybe it was my own selfishness that wanted time alone.

None of that mattered as the sun sank. Time to bring Mokuba back to the orphanage…where we both belonged.

No extraordinary feats of straining the mind were needed to go to the right area. My feet had tread the path before, but then, there had been two other sets to tread along with my own, back when my steps did not make such a jaded sound as this time.

And, there, at the end of my path to the old park, just sitting on a swing, was my younger brother, crying.

Were any parents or other adults ahead of me, soothing him with soft sounds? Even when a strange child gets a bump on the playground, was it too much to ask that another would grant a little comfort—the motherly kind, preferably, which he had never been granted?

No. No one was around at all, probably having had vacated quickly to shove aside the heart-felt sounds that were making them feel guilt for some orphaned boy. What did society owe to such a mistreated child? It wasn't as if they had personally been responsible for the circumstances surrounding our upbringing. No, the evils of the world just had to be allowed and accepted because there were too few people who cared to do anything about it. And people wonder why my motto is what it is.

When the sobs were no longer in their ears, their mind could adequately make the excuses needed to justify their actions.

When I walked over to him and said we should go back, he bubbled out all his miserable words and emotions as if I had accused of him something: "I'm sorry, niisama. I thought I could turn back time to when Dad was alive if I went to the park where we used to play."

He was five. What was I supposed to say?

What caught my attention wasn't even any of his tearful words about our father, but one that had to do with me. Niisama. Right then, I realized he would never call me "oniichan."

I think my hatred of Jonouchi was forever imbedded when I heard her cry out "Oniichan!" Someone like him…to have what I wanted…

Never would I be allowed to be my own brother's brother, but only a respectful parent—but I couldn't blame him for our predicament. So, at that moment, I knew what I had to say.

"Mokuba, don't cry anymore. I know how you feel. We're not stray dogs or rubbish. Don't worry about those people who made us like this. I'll make sure you can live happily. From now on, I'll be your father. I'll protect you no matter what. So stop crying."

Yes, I had taken over the role of parent before, but I had never completely admitted it to myself, and especially not to him. Now, everything between would be different and that was the day I gave up thinking we would ever be like true brothers or that I could ever cease being in charge.

At least, so I thought.

Then I told him, "Listen, always be on your guard. You'll be finished if you show any weakness."

My cliché had not really been meant solely for my brother. Just by saying the words aloud, they became a truth for me. Now, there were Mokuba's dreams to think of, and I wasn't going to let him abandon the world. I wasn't even going to let him abandon the American dream— making our way to the top despite our lifestyle—even though we were Japanese.

When I made myself Mokuba's father, I made myself a promise that Mokuba would have what I didn't—a chance to live out his dreams no matter what.

The world owed me at least that much.

Gritting his teeth, Mokuba jammed the mop into the pail of soapy water, splashing it everywhere. From the state of the floor, this place had not been cleaned for months. But, because this was an all-boy orphanage, and one rather cheaply run, the dirt had accumulated from just the past two weeks. Or so Mr. Guy claimed.

Where various bubbles and droplets had flown from the explosion of soap-laced liquid, small mud cakes formed.

Seeing the large task ahead of him, Mokuba muttered darkly to himself and kicked the bucket of water over. Instantly, a quagmire formed.

A small hand quickly reached over and righted the bucket.

"Uh oh! You spilled the water!"

It was Jumi.

"What are you doing here? You weren't punished." Then another option dawning on him, Mokuba gestured to the toilets. "Go ahead—I haven't touched them yet." Mokuba belatedly realized the end of that sentence was not likely to encourage the young orphan.

The boy laughed. "I came to help, oniichan!"

The title "oniichan" jarred the young Kaiba for a moment. But, seeing Jumi's closed-eyes smile beaming up at him, he couldn't tell the boy anything that would make the smile vanish. Besides, it was common for children to call those boys older than they were "older brother."

"But you didn't do anything wrong, Jumi."

"I like being with you." After a small pause, now serious, his big eyes looked up at him once more. Jumi took one step closer to Mokuba. "Will you be my big brother?"

Whipping the mop about in a frenzy, Mokuba did not know what to say. Apparently, Jumi wasn't just being traditional with his titles. But, Mokuba's own older brother would one day wake up and take him back to the mansion where he belonged. He had to believe that. And, someone else would adopt this kid. There was no way to truly be brothers, none at all. At least, so Mokuba told himself to avoid trying to speak around the closing of his throat.

While Mokuba was still standing there in shock, Jumi proceeded to reach the sinks with the bucket and refill it. That was the easy part. Trying to climb down off the stool to the ground with the water intact was a task that had the same odds as gasoline putting out flames: impossible.

"Jumi, let me take that!"

"I'm helping," the boy explained, again smiling as he hurried to the ground and took a rag to wash the stalls. At least, as far on the stalls as he could reach.

Helpless, ceasing the mopping he had begun again, Mokuba just watched Jumi spilling water all over the floor and on himself.

"Jumi…"

"What?" There was too much enthusiasm in just that one word for Mokuba to say anything at all. Instead, he bit his lip, wondering why this all seemed so familiar to him.

"You-you're getting all wet," he finished lamely.

"It's fun!" He paused in his water-splashing antics. "I like to help. You're my brother! We help each other." Looking down, he added softly, "I'm glad you stuck up to Sven."

Just mentioning the elder boy's name brought the pain back to his face. Still swollen, it throbbed with the pounding of his reluctant heart.

Was there any harm being there for a younger child for a short time? How could something so helpful ever be wrong? So, despite his own desire to remain always the younger sibling, to wallow in his pity of being stranded, Mokuba told himself that now, Jumi was his brother and Jumi needed him to be strong.

And, now that the decision had been made, Mokuba looked over Jumi and realized something. Mokuba's older brother had never called him anything other than "Mokuba," and for the first time, the young Kaiba wondered why. The answer was immediately apparent; Seto had always been a very serious soul, and using something besides a name just wasn't in his character. Now, though, Mokuba just didn't feel right calling Jumi anything other than his name, even if most other people had other references for their younger siblings.

Sighing, Mokuba swished the mop through the mud some more and nodded. "All right, Jumi. You can keep working on those stalls." Eyeing the streaks of dirt the boy was enthusiastically rubbing on the doors, he added, "Just let me get you some new water."

Parents always came looking at us. They didn't seem to understand my own responsibilities to my brother; some actually believed I would abandon him where he was to go with them to suffer my brain through countless agonies in order to put it into working order and maybe shame Einstein. They didn't know of my vow: it was not any dreams of mine that mattered, but Mokuba's.

So, until they offered to empty their purses on two soulless children, no trace of hope existed that I would ever go with them. It simply was not an option. A true father would never abandon his child.

Though it was never myself who informed his saddened senses, Mokuba knew of the offers. But he said nothing. Most people at that age never had to worry or contemplate a future where the one closest and most important to you vanishes without a trace and is never again part of your life. For Mokuba, it had happened with his true parents already. I knew he had to fear something of the same sort from me. Not as if he thought I would do it willingly—more like someone or something would snatch me away if we weren't carefully minding our P's and Q's or being exceptionally obedient. Almost, I could see a change in his behavior as time went on.

Immediately following an offer that he had heard gossip of, my little brother would be behaving immaculately, doing whatever was helpful or what was asked. And, because of the operant conditioning that was happening—there was a reward following such actions, namely that I never left—he learned that good behavior meant I stayed. Hence why my brother acts almost like a dog answering my whistle at times.