So far, this is the longest chapter, as perhaps befitting the conclusion of a mini-arc. This storyline is something I might have submitted as a three-shot story of its own. Granted, the inclusion of Connor in the first chapter wouldn't have worked without the context set forth by the rest of the collection, but in essence, this stands on its own decently well, I think. That was my original intent, although I fully admit that it has become something entirely different as I've continued to work through it.
I'm pleased both by the positive reaction to Gloria, as she was a fun character to write in, sparse as her time in the spotlight may be; and also the positive reaction to this work in general. I've mentioned that this is my favorite story to work on, and as such, I love to see what you all think of it, as well. What began as an experiment is turning into something I'm immensely proud of, and to have one's audience's approval is perhaps the greatest thing any writer can aspire to. But before I make a fool of myself further, let us continue with the story.
This is "Mother," the third and final installment of "Born to be a Mama's Boy." A touch of Seto's true "essence," metaphorically speaking, comes through here.
All thanks to Mokuba, of course.
1.
Mokie's bored here.
I guess I shouldn't be surprised. I did a lot of reading before he was born, and I know he's getting to the age when he should be playing with other kids. He should be learning social skills and things like that from his peers now, not from me. But there aren't any other kids his age in this muck-bowl orphanage, and the older ones don't want anything to do with "the baby."
I think I hate them. I know Mother said that hatred is a useless emotion. And I should believe her. She knew everything. But it's just not fair, what they do to him. He's just a little boy, like any of us, and why shouldn't he be allowed to have any friends? I know they don't like me, and I don't care. I'm smarter than they are, and they don't like it, and I don't care. But Mokie just wants to have fun. Why isn't he allowed to have any fun?
A couple of the adults know he's being ignored, and with him, at least, they make an effort. I don't care if they don't want to help me. They're right. I don't need help. I do well enough by myself. They should put their effort into helping the others. I'm fine. And I'm glad that they're trying to help Mokie. But it doesn't really help. He needs friends his own age. He needs to be able to play the games that he wants to, with someone who will play at his level.
I try to play with him as much as I can, and I think he likes learning chess. But it's hard for him. He doesn't really understand it, and that's not a surprise. He's only four. But I guess he thinks that if it's a game I like to play, then he should learn it, too.
He's started calling me "Niisama." I think maybe he heard it on TV somewhere, and asked one of the adults what it meant. I guess he likes it. Truthfully, I think I like it, too. It's nice. He can't pronounce it right yet, though. I'm trying to teach him. It's cute. I guess maybe since he has a nickname, he thinks I should have one, too.
Mother used to call me "Seto-chan." But it would be kind of weird for Mokie to call me that. Once she was pregnant, she moved on to "Seto-kun," but that's weird, too. Not the sort of thing you call your big brother, I guess. Miss Hathaway, who knows Japanese pretty well, I think she said she learned it in college, told Mokie that maybe he should call me "Oniichan," but Mokie likes Niisama. I'm glad.
Mister Kelvin knows Japanese fairly well, too, and he's annoyed. He says Mokie doesn't know what he's saying, and that respect shouldn't be given out so frivolously (like a four-year-old is going to know what "frivolously" means, anyway). Miss Hathaway told him that earning the respect of a kid Mokie's age isn't all that hard. Maybe he should try it sometime.
"He's a sweetheart if you give him a chance."
Kristine Hathaway was an eternal peacemaker. She was a woman who could not abide by conflict, and did all in her power—which admittedly was not very extensive—to resolve it. In short, good people loved her, bad people walked on her.
Gregory Kelvin was a walking man.
"The boy's a menace," he muttered.
"He's a menace because he doesn't cave," Daniel Elliot, who seemed to have taken it upon himself to be Kelvin's eternal rival and so chose to back Kristine on the particular subject of Yagami Seto, said. His backing had strengthened Kristine's own conviction. "He doesn't balk. The sad fact, Greg, is that you're intimidated by him. I think most of us are."
"Intimidated?" Kelvin scoffed. "By a skinny little ten-year-old—"
"He's twelve," Kristine put in.
"Whatever!"
"Okay, Greg," Daniel said offhandedly. "In that case, we'll just say your sister weighs 600 pounds. I mean, whatever, right? Get over yourself. I know there's supposed to be a bully in every establishment, but by God, man, you're starting to sound just plain pathetic."
Kelvin scowled. "I get it that you want to coddle that little upstart, but the fact remains, whether you want to see it or not, that he's violent. Or did you not see what he did to—"
"Don't let's talk about that," Kristine said, and her voice was stern but wavering, unused to such tones, "because you know as well as I do that David deserved that. He was antagonizing the little one, again, and I've been telling you time and time again to do something about it. You're forcing Yagami-kun to do your job for you, and...I daresay he's done a more effective, if unethical, job of it than you would have...if you'd ever decided to."
"Oh, so I am to—"
"Okay, this 'woe is me, I'm going to take everything you say and make it into a personal attack' shtick?" Daniel cut in. "Needs to stop, Greg. Yagami Seto has more bruises than any of the other boys here, and they're not from instigating fights. For God's sake, man, we're supposed to be raising these children, not turning this place into a goddamned gladiatorial arena! You're letting it turn into one, and if you do, Yagami Seto will fight his way to freedom, come whatever may."
Kelvin crossed his arms haughtily. "Look," he said, "I know the boy's had a rough life, all right? And maybe there is a reason for his attitude. That isn't the issue. The point is, he's dangerous. He's too violent. Justify it all you want. He's a danger."
"He's a danger because you aren't doing enough to keep danger from him," Kristine said, and Daniel nodded. "He's a danger because we've forced him to become one. Take the danger away from him for once in his life, away from his brother for once in his life, and Yagami Seto wouldn't need to be so 'violent.'"
Daniel crossed his arms sternly. "Greg...the boy's a survivor. It's all he knows. And we haven't done enough to teach him otherwise. Kris and I are trying, but we're the only ones who are. The rest of you are not just doing nothing, you're enabling the ones responsible for sending him on the downward spiral you like to condemn him for."
Daniel did not allow Kelvin to respond, choosing that moment to turn back toward where Yagami Seto was trying to teach his brother how the knight worked in chess, holding little Mokuba's hand up in front of him in the shape of an "L."
Mokuba was staring at his hand like it was a living creature.
Looking at the pair, Daniel couldn't help but hate Gregory Kelvin a little. Seto's face was fair, handsome, almost delicate. He was smiling, laughing, and he did not look at all like the powder keg Kelvin made him out to be. But, he supposed he had to be fair, because when Yagami Seto was angry, or even just slightly irritated or offended, or generally any emotion that wasn't pleasant, his face hardened and he looked rather frightening.
"If you want to help him so much, why not look at the supposed cause of his problems?" Kelvin said, and Daniel stopped. "Why not take the weight off his shoulders, then, and put the younger one somewhere els—"
"No."
Daniel snapped his head back, and there was terror in his eyes.
Kelvin blinked. "...But...plenty of people have asked about the younger one, and if it's causing them both so much grief, then...why...?"
Because, Daniel Elliot thought, but did not say, knew far better than to say, he is violent, justified or not. And if you try to take his brother from him...he'll kill you.
And from the look on Kristine's face, she knew it just as well as he did.
No one...no one...took Yagami Seto's brother away from him. It was not allowed. It was not tolerated. It was a sacrilege, and Seto had enough reason to hate most—if not all—adults already. To give him another would not only be counterproductive.
It would be insane.
2.
The thing about Seto and Mokuba Kaiba that most people didn't understand was that Mokuba was not the least bit delusional as to what his brother was. He knew better than any just what Seto was capable of. He knew that his brother was violent, that he had a temper; that he was dangerous.
The common assumption, though, was that he did not. And that that was why Mokuba adored him (this applied, of course, only to those who believed that Mokuba did adore him). But that just wasn't true. Seto knew that if it had been, then Mokuba would have long since hated him by now. Because deception was not something that Seto Kaiba engaged in. He did not sugarcoat, and he did not hide.
"Mokuba does not love me because he thinks I'm perfect," Seto had said once, on one of the handful of occasions that he had gone on public record about his relationship with his brother, "and indeed, if I tried to be perfect, he wouldn't love me at all. He might admire me. Might respect me. But it would be stale. Sterile. Empty."
"I love him because he's sacrificed for me," Mokuba had said on the same subject, during the same interview. "He's gone without for me. He's—"
Mokuba had been speaking to a talk show host when he'd said that. And said host had snickered, rather loudly, in response. One of the few times in his life Seto had been struck senseless with shock had been when Mokuba stopped mid-sentence, and said instead, any and all expression completely wiped from his face,
"Thank you. That was awesome."
And the black-haired boy, ten at the time, had stood from his chair, and walked offstage.
That was the end of it.
Seto, after a moment of stunned surprise, stood up as well, and followed his brother.
They had not found out until much later, when they had happened across that recording, that the other guest of the show that day, Pegasus Crawford of all people, had said in response to Mokuba's sudden departure, "For all who wonder why Mokuba Kaiba often refuses to speak of his brother, you now have your answer: it is because nobody listens to him."
It had been the one time in his entire life that Seto—and, indeed, Mokuba—had ever come close to liking Pegasus Crawford.
Seto was not sure why that particular event came to him as he sat in his office on October 25th, trying with all his considerable willpower to forget that date's significance. But it brought a smile to his face now. He could not remember ever being prouder of his little brother, could not remember ever loving him so much, as when he had walked off that stage.
People assumed Seto did not actually love Mokuba, and that those rare examples of affection that the public was allowed to see were simply a façade. But if Seto had ever been in a mood to explain, and had ever thought that his words might actually be heard, then he might have told them that the truth was that he loved Mokuba so much sometimes that it ached. He, much like Mokuba himself had done with Connor Brinkley, clung to his kid brother like a lifeline, knowing that this was one of the only people who truly understood him. And there would never be gratitude enough for that.
And this all he thought before he discovered just what it was that Mokuba had managed to conjure for his brother's twentieth birthday.
3.
He had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.
Even Travis, who did not know Yagami Yuki from any other woman, was stunned when Gloria Haley unveiled her latest creation. Mokuba thought, as he looked upon the pastel painting of his mother, that the money he had given for it was far too much a pittance to ever be enough.
Haley was positively aglow as she watched Mokuba's reaction. Here, in his face and his eyes, was her proof that she had made true on her promise: she had delivered; she had created a masterpiece.
Mokuba felt not just warm. No. What he felt was an almost unbearable feeling of intangible euphoria, running down his spine and causing him to shiver. It made his skin tingle, it made his heart constrict; it blossomed in his stomach.
Yuki's eyes, a sparkling violet like amethysts caught in brightest summer sunlight, shone down on him; and her smile, subtle and magnificent, felt like her slender, gentle arms around him; and he thought he might remember being rocked to sleep by those arms, in those scant few hours just after his birth; and if he did not remember, then he knew that it must have felt like this. Her face had the hand-sculpted perfection of an ancient goddess, her jet-black hair falling like a midnight waterfall over her shoulders.
Mokuba could even see a bit of himself in her now. In the eyes, and the face, especially in the soft smile that curved her subtly red lips. He hadn't really seen it in the photo; it had been too small. But as he looked at the huge canvas in Gloria Haley's ungodly gifted hands, Mokuba was embarrassed that he hadn't known his mother from his first moment of seeing her.
And he realized: Yagami Yuki was the most beautiful woman in the world.
How could Gloria Haley have done this? he might have thought, if he'd had the ability to think tangibly of anything. How can this be possible? How could a painting, a flat recreation of reality twice removed from itself, be so...so...
He tried to speak.
"Don't bother, sweetie," Haley told him when he couldn't, grinning from ear to ear. "Your eyes just gave me the greatest compliment I could ever have asked for. Thank you, Mokuba. You don't know what it means to me. You take this, and you give it to your brother."
She hadn't signed it. She hadn't marred the surface of the painting with her signature. The mark of her work was on the underside of the canvas, miniscule and unseen beneath the frame. And Haley thought that there was no question, now: this painting, that only four people, one of them herself, would ever see, was the best work she had ever done, and would ever do.
And the look on Mokuba's face when he saw it was a gift in itself, and she almost handed him his money back, even as Mokuba contemplated in some distant part of his own mind paying her more. She did not know who the woman in the painting was, although she had an idea, but she did know that whoever she had been, it would have been an honor to meet her. It certainly had been an honor to paint her.
But Haley did not yet know the real gift that would come from this work.
She had no way of knowing, and would not know until two weeks later, just what she had done in taking this commission from Mokuba Kaiba. But she would know, and she would marvel, at the realization that the endorsement of a Kaiba meant more to the people of Domino City than she had ever understood.
She had no way of knowing that from this moment, as she watched—with tears burning the backs of her eyes—Mokuba leave her shop with his brother's birthday gift in tow, she would never have to worry about a lack of business, or a lack of income, another day in her life.
As if the God of her youth Himself were thanking her for bringing one of His angels back to life.
4.
Now that it was over, Mokuba didn't feel excitement. Rather, he felt contentment. He felt calm. As he stepped out of Seto's office after Travis helped him put the framed painting up (in the center of the wall opposite the door, to the left of Seto's desk), Mokuba simply smiled.
"Bet you can't wait for him to get home, huh?" Travis asked, but that wasn't true.
Now that it was done, Mokuba just felt...good.
Travis left at eight-thirty, grinning widely and promising Mokuba that word of Yuki's painting would never leave his lips, and Mokuba smiled in response; they both knew the assurance was unnecessary. Travis Copeland, like Roland Ackerman, were members of the inner circle, those select few people that Mokuba had come to think of, jokingly, as the NRA (Niisama's Registered Associates), and there would be no worrying about secrets leaking out from him.
He found himself in the kitchen minutes later, whistling while he stirred the steak and bell peppers in the skillet for his dinner, knowing that Seto would not be home early because try as he might to forget it, Seto always remembered his own birthday, and always tried to bury himself in obstinate defiance by staying at work at least until ten. Mokuba wasn't disappointed. He knew how this went.
He sat down at the dining room table, fajita filling sizzling like it always did at restaurants on his plate. He turned on the stereo system, turning to a classical music station that Seto sometimes listened to when he could not abide by his usual silence, and actually recognized a piece that Seto could play, and had played a few times on the piano in the front parlor.
He ate his dinner quietly, slowly, feeling a nice, peaceful tiredness settling over himself as he did, and thought that he would sleep very well tonight. He thought about the painting in his brother's office, and his smile widened. He was not excited, in the typical sense, but he did wonder what Seto's reaction to it would be. He was not worried that Seto would be upset; the idea never once crossed his mind. No. That wouldn't happen.
Someone else, like Travis or Haley, might have assumed that Mokuba would follow his brother to his office, maybe pulling him by the hand, saying, "C'mon, I have to show you something, hurry up," so that he could see Seto's first impression of his gift.
But Mokuba would have laughed at such a notion.
He knew, intuitively, how Seto would react. And he knew that he could not bear witness to that. It would be a trespass. No, Seto had to be alone. At least at first. He knew this, and so he never once thought of following Seto or even mentioning anything to him when he came home. There was no need. Seto would know that Mokuba had gotten him something, and had grown to appreciate his brother's quiet courtesy in never making a big deal out of it.
When Seto stepped into the parlor about an hour after Mokuba had finished dinner, the boy was sitting on the couch and watching a movie. They looked at each other, and Mokuba greeted him, and Seto nodded with a smile as he set his briefcase down and hung up his coat.
Seto left for his office, and Mokuba said nothing.
But his smile nearly reached his ears.
5.
Seto knew, in that same distant way that he knew it was spring in the southern hemisphere, that Mokuba had gotten him a gift. And his gratitude, just as muted as the knowledge, was there, but not something that he paid much attention to. It was, like everything in Kaiba Manor, a routine, and it did not bear speaking, nor thinking, of. It happened, he knew it, and yes, he appreciated it. But he did so quietly, and Mokuba knew that he did.
He gave some passing thought to actually thanking Mokuba this time. He was in a rather good mood, which was odd because this day usually put him in a sour one, and anyway...the boy deserved it, didn't he? Communication—of the personal sort, the intimate sort—had never been Seto Kaiba's strong suit, but...he was making progress. So maybe...
This thought ground to a halt as he flicked on the light in his office and stepped inside.
Mokuba had been speechless. Travis Copeland had been stunned. Gloria Haley had been glowingly proud. But as Seto Sasaki-Yagami Kaiba lay eyes on the pastel painting of his mother for the first time, he was nothing. His mind shut off.
He fell to his knees.
6.
She sings to him at bedtime.
There are days when he falls asleep too early, at the volition of exhaustion, perhaps, and she isn't able to, but every night that he actually goes to bed at his established time—which is most nights—she sings to him.
Do the songs she sings have words? He knows that they must, but he cannot tell what any of them are. Because it isn't the words he listens to. Her voice, Mother's voice, is what he hears. It is all he hears, and it is all he needs to hear. He feels her hand stroke back his hair, he sees her face so clearly in the moonlight, and it is all he needs to know.
Mother is here.
Mother is singing to him.
He does not need to worry now. He does not need to think about his math test on Thursday; if he will play basketball or if he will have free time in PE; if the mean boy from seat 6D will try to force him to switch homework papers again; if the girl in seat 3A will smile at him again; he does not need to think about any of that, he forgets all of that, because Mother is singing, and her voice is beautiful.
She finishes her song, and Mother smiles. "Sweet dreams, my angel," she whispers to him, and kisses his forehead before she tucks his blanket under his chin and stands up. He looks at her worshipfully, and he tells her that he loves her.
"I love you, too, Seto-chan," she says, and he smiles because he knows.
She stops in the doorway, a blank silhouette, and turns back to him again. "Night-night," she says gently, and he closes his eyes as she shuts the door. And he sleeps, and he dreams, and he is happy; because in his dreams, Mother is still singing.
And Mother's voice is beautiful.
7.
I know this, some part of his mind thought distantly, as he stared.
Yes, he knew it. He knew it well. And yet he didn't. This was not the same. It was not what he remembered. If the photograph that he remembered was the surface, then this scene in front of him was the core, transcendent and glowing and...and...
Seto was a child again. He was not dressed in cleanly pressed, crisp black slacks and a navy button-down shirt. He was not six feet tall, his face was not angular, his eyes were not sharp, and if he had had a voice with which to speak, it would not be deep, and it would not be harsh.
He was eight years old, dressed in shorts and a white polo shirt, and Yagami Kohaku was smiling as he helped his son hold up the camera, because it was heavy and Seto was thin, and Yuki sat on a bench with a rose in her hand. She did not know that she was pregnant, not yet, but she would soon. Seto knew only that she was so very pretty, and that she was his.
He took the picture, and it was perfect, and Yuki smiled and hugged him, and he might have complained that he was a big boy now, too old to need a hug and a congratulatory kiss on the top of his head for just taking a silly old picture, except he forgot to tell her because he was too busy smiling. Kohaku ruffled his hair, and when the picture was developed he said that Seto would be a photographer someday, a damn good one.
He kept that picture, because it was his. And he thought, as he held Mokuba in his arms at Yuki's funeral, that he should toss the picture onto the coffin as it was lowered into the ground, and he almost did, but he couldn't. Because...because...
He kept the picture in his journal, the journal she had given him on his sixth birthday, and he did not look at it again until three years later, on the day he buried his father and became one himself. And even though he continued to write in that journal until it was filled, almost a full year after he had become Kaiba and not Yagami, he did not look at the picture again. He forgot, because Otousama made him forget, and he did not try to remember.
He stared now, twenty years old, at that old picture, made new on canvas and framed on his office wall, and he could not find words. He had no words. There were no words.
Because Mother was still singing.
And Mother's voice was still beautiful.
8.
Mokuba did not need an answer. He did not need to know, because he knew already.
He thought he knew, anyway. He thought that when Seto came out of his office, he would say nothing. But he would smile, and that would be all the answer Mokuba would ever need. He thought that he might hear something different in Seto's voice, something softer and gentler, when he said goodnight, and that would be more than enough.
But when Seto came out into the front parlor, and Mokuba looked up, he did not see a smile.
And all at once, Mokuba felt terrified.
Oh, God. He didn't like it. He hated it. He hated it and he hated him for daring to give it to him. Mokuba jumped to his feet, unable to tear his eyes away from the horrible emptiness on his brother's face, and tried to apologize.
But then Seto almost collapsed to his knees, and hugged him. Hugged him so tightly that he couldn't breathe, and Mokuba had his answer. All the answer he would ever need. And for the first time, Seto did not flinch when Mokuba finally whispered,
"Happy birthday, Niisama."
END
I will be the first to admit that I cannot, no matter how long I take, fully encompass the image in my head of Gloria's painting. Not in words. I don't think it's possible. But I think that you might just understand what's there, despite that. It's the culmination, the zenith, if you will, of Seto's past. Of every pleasant memory he has. This is why Mokuba takes after his mother, aesthetically. It's why I specified that she was already pregnant with Mokuba when the original picture was taken, and why Seto was the one to take it.
I do not usually abide by symbolism, in the standard sense. I don't go out of my way to use it. I don't specify symbols for ideas because I believe that if you do your job right as a writer, you don't need to beat people over the head with symbolism. It's already there. The ideas are already there. The writer's job is to show the audience what they are, and symbolism for symbolism's sake is a crutch. However, this painting, this birthday gift, is perhaps the most overt symbol I've ever put into my work.
Because I think it's that important. It's important to realize that Yuki was the source of Seto's happiness as a child. She was his lifeline. She was the emotional attachment that all children need to grow properly, just like Seto himself was for Mokuba. And for Mokuba to be the one to give his brother this gift is also important, because he is the only one from whom it would not be an insult. If you take anything from this story about the core of Seto's character, take this: he was happy once. He was content once. He was normal once.
And there was once a woman who loved him, who taught him and protected him, and that woman was important.
