Souvenir

Disclaimer: Just own the words, not the folks.

Dust

“Is he really dead, Seto? It’s not some trick to get us to relax?” Mokuba asks as we sit comfortably on the couch.

These last few days with Mokuba have been spent catching up on each other’s lives. He’s told me about Egypt, living with the Ishtars, learning to speak Arabic, school, the new friends he’s made...I used the mention of new friends to tell him about Yami, though I didn’t mention anything about my life on the streets.

So when Mokuba brings up his father’s death out of the blue, I’m not really surprised, though it strikes me that I’d wondered the exact same thing a few weeks earlier. I hold him close, reassuring him that Gozaboro can’t hurt him anymore.

“He can’t hurt you anymore either, Seto,” he declares.

“W-what do you mean, Mokuba?” I stammer, hoping that he’s not talking about...No, he couldn’t be talking about that.

“Mokuba?” I prod when he falls silent and turns away from me.

“I knew,” he confesses in a whisper. “I found out from one of the maids why you’d been so sick and didn’t come to see me for such a long time.”

I stare at him in shock.

“I blamed you,” he continues quietly. “After he started...after he left you and...and...”

I turn away from him, a blockage in my throat hampering my breathing.

He knew. Mokuba knew that...

And he blamed me for...

Did he always blame me? Even after I got him out of there, did he still blame me? Is that why...why he left me? Why he went with the Ishtars? He knew that I would be back for him, but he left with them anyway. He didn’t even say good-bye.

“Is that why you went with the Ishtars?” I choke. “Did you hate me so much that you’d choose to be with strangers rather than stay with me?”

I’m nearly knocked from the couch when he throws himself in my arms.

“Never, Seto! I’ve never hated you! Never!” he exclaims.

I hold him tightly, my heart aching.

“I should have paid more attention. I should have known what he was doing. I’m so sorry, Mokuba,” I mumble into his hair.

“I don’t blame you anymore, Seto,” he confesses, lifting some of the weight from my heart. “And even when I did, I never hated you! I just wanted to have a real family and be happy. That’s why I went with the Ishtars. But you’re my big brother and I love you. I could never hate you.”

I hold him tighter.

“I’m sorry, Seto. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ve missed you so much,” he whispers tearfully.

“I’ve missed you too, Mokuba,” I murmur, my tears joining his.

When Yami gets in nearly two hours later, we’re still on the couch, talking about what Gozaboro did to us. Not wanting to share our pain with Yami just then, I take Mokuba up to my room where we continue to talk and sometimes cry until the delicious smell of Yami’s pastries come wafting up the stairs.

“That smells really good, Seto,” Mokuba sniffs deeply. “Is he making that for a special party?”

“No, he’s making that for us,” I explain.

“Really?” Mokuba’s teary eyes get big at the prospect of that wonderful smell being associated with something for him to eat.

“Yeah. It’s how he shows he’s worried. C’mon, let’s clean up a little and see what he’s fixed,” I smile lightly, steering him toward the bathroom.

After wiping our faces, we head downstairs to enjoy Yami’s confectionary delights.

Four days later, I’m surprised that neither my brother’s head, nor mine, have exploded from the sugar overload.

“I promise that we’re okay, Yami,” I assure him again as he whips up something new for us to eat after dinner.

“That’s not why I’m making these,” he bluffs. “Raph’s coming to cook for us tonight and I thought I’d make something special since it will be his first time meeting Mokuba.”

“Of course,” I smirk. “I’ll just let you get back to that.”

Leaving the kitchen, I frown in concern. Raphael isn’t very happy about me being here with Yami. How is he going to react to my brother’s presence?

I hear the front door open a second too late to get to Mokuba who’s sitting in the front room.

“Hi! I’m Mokuba!” he greets cheerfully as Raphael stares at him wide-eyed. “I guess you must be a friend of Yami’s too, since you have a key.”

“Who...” Raphael trails off.

“He’s my little brother,” I supply, standing behind Mokuba protectively.

Raphael’s eyes get even wider before he scowls and heads for the kitchen.

“Is he mad at you, Seto?” Mokuba tilts his head back to ask.

“He’s...not happy that I live here,” I reply, knowing that it’s a bit of an understatement. I just hope they don’t start fighting while Mokuba’s here. His visit here has been traumatic enough with everything that we’ve talked about over the last few days. He doesn’t need to worry about my living situation.

Thankfully, though dinner is a little tense, Raphael keeps things civil. And after Mokuba has happily dug into the delicious pastries, he heads up to my room for bed. I follow him a few moments later.

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We come back from a late afternoon walk around the neighborhood to find Yami on the phone.

“Oh, they just walked in!” he exclaims. “Mokuba, it’s your parents.”

“Hello? Oh, hi, Mom!” Mokuba beams, taking the cordless phone and heading into the living room.

‘Mom’? He calls her... But she’s not our...

“Seto? Are you alright?” Yami’s voice cuts into the swirling mental images brought on by Mokuba calling someone else, “Mom.”

“I-I’m fine,” I stammer, shrugging his hand from my shoulder and heading up to my room.

I shouldn’t be so upset by this. Of course Mokuba would call her mom. She’s really the only mom he’s ever had. After all, he hasn’t seen his real mother since he was three years old! He probably doesn’t even remember her.

“But I do,” I whisper to myself.

I remember her voice, her dark, thick hair, her blue-grey eyes, her warm hands, her soothing touch; everything!

“Even how she looked when she died,” I mumble to myself, shuddering at the memory I’ve had buried for a long time.

“Seto!” I Mokuba calls as he comes up the stairs. “Mom wants to talk to you.”

“She’s not my mom,” I grumble under my breath, quickly reining in my feelings of bitterness.

“Mrs. Ishtar,” I greet, taking the phone from Mokuba.

“That’s so formal, Seto,” I hear her laugh on the other end. “You can call me “mom” too, if you’d like.”

“No,” I state with finality. “I can’t.”

“I see,” she sighs on the other end. “At least tell me how you’re doing.”

“I’m fine,” I reply sincerely, wondering about her motive for talking to me. Mokuba’s frown from the bed isn’t helping.

“Seto,” she begins after a short pause. “Mokuba told us what you went through with Gozaboro. Please know that you can call us anytime if you need to talk about it.”

“Mokuba has no idea what I went through,” I snarl, resenting her prying.

“Seto!” Mokuba defends from my bed, frowning deeper at me.

“I apologize, Seto,” she inserts before I can continue. “Mokuba said that he was worried about you and of course I only want what’s best for Mokuba. And you too.”

Not wanting to listen to her odd ramblings anymore, I give the phone to Mokuba and head back downstairs.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Yami intrudes on my silent brooding at the kitchen table.

“She’s not my mom,” I grumble.

“Hmm, true,” he nods, heading over to the microwave to heat up two cups of water for tea. Normally, he boils the water in a pot, but sometimes he doesn’t want to wait that long.

Actually, given the amount of sugar that he’s plied us with for the last few days, I’m surprised that he doesn’t produce some confectionary treat to go with it.

“What was she like?” he prods, sitting across from me.

“Very gentle,” I reply after a few moments, suddenly missing my mom more than I thought possible after all these years. “Mokuba looks a lot like her. He has her eyes, her hair coloring and texture, the shape of her face, her nose; almost nothing of him is Gozaboro.”

“That’s probably a relief for both of you,” he smiles reassuringly, getting up to fetch our heated water. We wait for the tea to steep in silence.

As I’m lifting the tea to my lips to drink, I’m startled by a sudden revelation; I know exactly what Mokuba inherited from that bastard.

The cup slips from my nerveless fingers onto the saucer with a loud clatter, nearly burning me with the steaming liquid inside.

“Seto!” Yami yelps in concern, quickly getting a dish towel to mop up the scalding water.

“His hands,” I whisper, staring at the table and shaking. “He has that bastard’s hands.”

I’d noticed it that first night he slept here in my bed. No, it was earlier; when he stood in Yami’s front door with the Ishtars. Those same wide palms and powerful fingers of Gozaboro’s are now possessed by my beloved little brother. I fight the urge to be sick all over the kitchen table as I remember the many awful things those hands did to me. Abruptly, I become aware of my own slim hands clutching at Yami’s shirt as he stands with his arms around me.

I have my mothers’ hands; slender palms and slim fingers that were completely useless against that bastard.

I continue to cling to Yami for several minutes, burying my face in his chest until I calm down.

“Thank you,” I murmur, pulling away.

Yami lightly strokes my hair a few moments before silently retrieving my cup and saucer and wiping up the rest of the spill from the table.

“I’m sorry,” I offer as he heats up more water.

His smile of understanding warms me all over.

“Seto?” my brother calls from the kitchen doorway as we silently sip our tea sometime later. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d be happy if mom...” he pauses at the scowl on my face, “I mean, if you could talk to her too. I thought it would make you feel better. Talking to her made me feel better.”

Standing swiftly, I fold Mokuba into my arms forcing myself not to cringe when his hands settle lovingly on my back. He’s just trying to look after me and I’m worried about something that I can’t change. Our mother is gone. Why should I care if he calls Mrs. Ishtar “mom” as long as he’s happy? Even if I don’t say anything about what happened with Gozaboro, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to at least talk to her about Mokuba.

“How about some pastries,” Yami suggests, pulling out ingredients.

Mokuba laughs affirmatively. At this rate, our heads are sure to explode.

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“Please, can’t I stay just a few more days,” Mokuba pleads as we make our way to the gate for the Ishtar’s flight home.

“Mokuba, we’ve already stayed longer than we’d planned. You’re all already a week late for school,” Mr. Ishtar explains.

“But, I need more time!” He yells. “I don’t want to go yet!”

“Mokuba…” Mrs. Ishtar tries to soothe him, but he pulls away and runs back into my arms.

“Please, Seto! Tell them that you want me to stay,” he entreats, tears in his eyes.

I smile lightly, wiping a stray tear from his cheek. I don’t want him to leave either, but I know that it’s for the best if he does. He has a full life in Egypt with this family waiting for his return. It would be selfish of me to deprive him of that any longer than I have already.

“Seto, come with me! We can be a family again!” he presses.

“Mokuba...” I don’t want to refuse outright. “Maybe I could visit later,” I suggest.

“Yes, that’s a good idea, Seto!” Mrs. Ishtar confirms. I glance up at her smiling face, hoping that her offer in sincere, even though she’s said similar things in the past.

“Mokuba,” I turn his now tearful face to mine, “You need to go home now. We’ll keep in touch, I promise!”

“You promised last time and I didn’t hear from you for two years! I thought you were dead!” he sobs.

I hold him tight against me and let him cry. He’d revealed his feelings about my disappearance many times during his stay, and I’d apologized until I had nothing else I could say.

Eventually, the Ishtars have to pull Mokuba away from me, his sobs of not wanting to leave me overshadowing my promises to keep in touch. As the family disappears through security, I feel Yami’s hand on my arm.

“Come on, Seto. Let’s go home,” he murmurs, steering me toward the exit.