State of Mind

PAIRING(S): Seto + Mokuba

ORIGINAL CHARACTERS: Grey-san, Corvin-san, Field-san and the Kravans.

SPOILERS: None really, since the plot is most likely more AU than anything else.

SUMMARY: Mokuba is now 15 years old and has grown into a confident young man. In the years since Secrets that Remain Mokuba has become aware of Seto's game and the brothers have become inseparably close. Yet many secrets still remain. As the eve of Mokuba's 16th birthday nears, a new and unusual tension is in the air.
What lies beneath the surface of happy days and silent nights? When the demons of the past will not die, how does one continue to live? "This ephemeral peace will one day shatter and all shall fall away...”

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Yuugiou nor am I making any money from this story. Please give appropriate support toward Yuugiou's mangaka Takahashi Kazuki.

*****WARNINGS: PLEASE NOTE that this story contains direct mention and some description of sexual/mental child abuse between two males. This content is portrayed as a damaging, terrible act of violation toward a child as any type of child abuse is; however, if this subject offends you in ANY way, please do not read.

Contains Yaoi/MalexMale/Homosexual and incestuous situations, mature language, mention of attempted suicide, and various other not nice things.

-Blood.


---Chapter 05---


Seto was the last one working that night at Kaiba Corporations© yet again. He did not want to go home just to stay awake all night trying to keep busy enough not to notice how empty the mansion was. He was hard pressed to get anything done as it was, his thoughts running rampant just below the surface.

Yuugi's house. Mokuba was constantly going to Yuugi's house. That was where he was on that night, as well. He had spent the night at the blonde's house, leaving Seto all alone in the mansion, with its too many yawning rooms and darkened corners. An empty estate full of memories, waiting for only one brother to return for the night.

Insomnia had been Seto's problem for years, but he could usually manage just enough to keep him going as long as he knew the house was not empty. Seto did not sleep at all when Mokuba was away. Late at night, if Mokuba was not at home, Seto found it hard to believe he would ever return. As much as the CEO hated to admit it, being utterly alone was frightening. Not because of what dangerous creatures the shadows could hold, but what they could show him; not to mention what he could do to himself.

With no reassurance sleeping down the hall, Seto's mind would come alive to the point of complete disillusion. Back then, Seto still had his little game, making his panic attacks all the more dangerous. He remembered every moment with terrible detail.

Seto had arrived home from work at a horribly early time: 1:30 a.m. There had been little left to do and his troubled mind could not concentrate enough to finish up. His vision had insisted on becoming unfocused constantly. It most likely was because of the growing headache that had attacked his temples around noon. He feared it might become a migraine, and even Kaiba Seto had trouble working when light and even silence made his head pound.

He pulled the door to the mansion shut tightly behind him. He stood in the darkness, shoes still on, jacket still in hand. He believed he could hear the silence emanating from the empty building; it made his head ache. Mokuba would not be here all night. That was all right. He would not have to worry about hiding from him tonight. He could even leave his door unlocked if he wished.

Scaling the stairs seemed to take a lifetime, the exertion stealing the athletic brunette's breath away. He was sweating once he reached the hallway to his room. Shaking fingers loosened a suddenly too tight tie, already starting to unbutton the dark shirt that clung to him.

He threw the damp fabric on the floor of his room randomly, shutting his door securely even if he did not lock it. He paused, considering if he really should go ahead, before deciding it didn't matter since no one would be home.

His throat was dry, his tongue parched with his quickened breath as he walked into his unlit closet. He did not even both flipping the light on, his feet sure of where to tread to reach the back corner, his hands sure of where to reach to find the smooth, heavy box. He squatted in the void, opening the locked box with a skill that showed this had been done countless times. When his enflamed fingers touched the rough velvet, his heart skipped a beat. As they ran over the cold metal at the center, he held his breath, extracting the beloved item. Seto raised the gun to his face, pressing the chilled silver to his damp cheek, immediately reacting with a shiver.

It felt heavier than usual; the weight of guilt shrouding his senses as he remembered the last time this game was played. He had been wild, pulling the trigger of the empty .45 as quick as he could. He had even placed the barrel in his mouth, biting down to feel the metallic vibration that would run through the object each time the gun was cocked and the trigger was pulled. He'd felt near tears by the time he pulled the gun away to catch his breath. The useless object was thrown to the ground, skidding across the plush carpet and turning so the barrel was pointing straight at Seto. It mocked him.

He had replaced it after that, vowing to never use it again. The game was not doing as much as it once did, and he feared he might try something more severe to constantly get that little kick he believed kept him sane.

He was currently breaking that vow, pressing his boiling skin against the cold metal in his hands, mouth open to show the delight that small touch had brought. He needed it. He needed the release this simple, perilous machine could bring him. Nothing else he had tried worked the right way. Which was why he stood, carrying the gun out of his closet before depositing himself into his usual corner, sliding down the wall into an awkward sitting position. His legs splayed out before him.

His naked back rested against the cool wall, his neck leaning backwards as he let his eyes stay closed for an extended moment. The memory had been hounding Seto all day, refusing to let him go as his own screams rang inside his head. It would not go away. None of them ever did. He simply had to relive the events to silence them for a while. Repression was a joke; these memories were too strong.

His shoulders twitched roughly, his hands clenching around his fix, the lined surface of the wide handle digging lightly into his palms. He paid no attention, merely trying to breathe enough to stay conscious as the memory passed over him.

The surface of the bathroom floor was cold—freezing—and uncomfortable to the young brunette. His entire body was shivering terribly, his skin covered in gooseflesh, but for another reason. He was terrified, his eyes wide and unseeing behind the thick fold of cloth over them. The tears in his eyes could not even fall, the tightly tied fabric soaking up all his efforts. A sudden sharp snap beside his ear pressed into the floor echoed through his head, his body jerking to the side instinctually.

His knees dug into the floor, pushing him as best they could in his awkward position. Another crack resounded, the whip hitting flesh this time and accompanied by a howl of pain and fright.

"Please…" the young Seto pleaded with trembling lips before another snap to the floor struck.

"Seto, you aren't listening to me. I've told you already three times," said a seemingly deafening voice above the boy. "Every time you try to get away I will only hit you again. Being the coward that you are, I know it will be hard to curb your instinct to flee, but keep in mind: You have no choice." His tone was almost bored as he stared down at the bound boy. Thick hands held a simple whip, ready to let it fly any moment. A chuckle cut the air, Gozaburou leaning down to one knee soundlessly.

Seto made quite a lovely image. The youth was blindfolded on his knees and shivering. With his hands tied to the insides of his ankles, Seto had little choice but to stay still, his face and shoulder pressed onto the floor and his pert little ass sticking straight up. Gozaburou had told Seto that this would be an important lesson. He would teach the youth how to stay calm in any situation, how to release himself of fear, as well as learn to be utterly obedient. That was still one of the youth's flaws. He just didn't want to listen.

Gozaburou slid his hand up a little on the whip's handle, dragging the tip along the exposed valley of Seto's spread legs. He watched the sharp tensing of muscles in the slender legs and back, the boy even attempting to squeeze himself shut. As if to mock those attempts, the cruel man shoved half of the handle into the soft ring of muscle, before twisting.

Seto cried out at the sudden harsh feeling, before biting his lower lip. He hated this. It was even worse than a simple night with Gozaburou, and he knew the real thing hadn't even started. It was a relief, however, once that woven handle was removed. He wondered if he was now bleeding.

Gozaburou stood, "Now, for the first question." Gozaburou had described this lesson by saying he would bind and blindfold Seto before asking him certain questions: math, history, advertising and marketing, stock, science, the works. If Seto did not answer quickly enough, he would be whipped. If he did not answer calm enough, if the answer was wrong, or if Gozaburou simply felt like it, Seto would be whipped. And Seto would not know when or where it would land, his eyes useless behind the blindfold.

It had sounded simple enough, but now that Seto was in the middle of it, he could not stop his heart from racing, his body from reacting in fright. He was utterly helpless, not to mention naked. The position alone tore at Seto, his shame confusing his mind and making it even harder to concentrate. Especially when the bastard kept snapping the whip whenever he pleased.

The first time Seto had tried to scramble away, he had fallen to his side unable to do anything but roll uncomfortably onto his back. Blind, he had not seen, but heard the whistle of the whip fly, catching his chest. It hurt worse than his back. So he desperately worked to flip back over, sobbing at the pain in his wrists and ankles, and burning alive at how he must look to his foster father, naked and twisting like some animal on the floor.

Once flipped, he'd received a few licks for good measure, the larger man voicing his displeasure violently.

Now he was doing his best to simply stay still.

"What is the product of 45 and 45?" Gozaburou started evenly. Seto had always shown skill with numbers, and the problem should not have been too hard. He simply did not expect Gozaburou to whip when he was coming up with the answer. His voice faltered as the pain went through him, numbing his thoughts momentarily.

After a few more cruel cuts, Seto finally managed to sputter the answer, "2025!" he yelled, only to be whipped again. What had gone wrong? That was correct, he knew it! He tried again. Maybe he had not spoken composed enough. "2025," he said as evenly as he could, trying to ignore the white spots before his eyes and the pain searing his back.

"Correct," said a thick voice, obviously pleased with something. "What is your name?"

Confused at such a simple question, Seto hesitated, earning himself a sharp sting in his right thigh. "Kaiba Seto," he said, his voice pitching a little.

"Very good, you seem to understand. Now we'll skip to the hard questions. Remember, Seto, stay calm," the man said with a grin, flicking the bare flesh again and staining the leather with more blood. He would see how long the boy could last and then clean him up. He had to be sure Seto did not lose too much blood; he was not trying to kill him, after all.

The questions grew more difficult with each new one, demanding more thought process or detail. The time considered as hesitation shortened, and Gozaburou seemed to simply be having fun with his whip, snapping it down whenever he pleased, giving a mere compliment if Seto got the answer right. The worst part was that Seto was learning to do exactly what Gozaburou wanted. His voice, though laced with pain, eventually fell to a monotone level, speaking each answer evenly.

He learned to keep his mind working even as he feared for the fly of leather, soon convincing himself to not worry at all, since it would come no matter what he did. He had no control over what was happening, which he decided he hated. He hated being forced to answer these questions, hated the sounds of short laughter above him, even the feel and smell of his own blood as it trickled over his flesh. He was sure if shame had a smell, it would be like the smell of blood.

Now if only he could make himself stop crying.

Somehow the gun had risen, the barrel looking him in the eye. His back burned, as did his other scars. His head still pounded, the room seeming too bright even in the near blackness. His hands trembled, continuously changing the gun's trajectory. Finally he brought his lips forward, pressing them to the front opening to hold it still. It still felt too heavy. His mind was screaming at him, telling him he was forgetting something important. Something critical was escaping him and no matter how he tried, he could not find a thing. He decided he could worry about it later.

He curled his finger around the trigger, pretending it was loaded and envisioning the spectacle that would occur once his finger constricted. Pressure was added, his breath quickening with each moment. His arm tensed, his finger suddenly stalling. He opened his eyes wide, staring at the gun pressed to his lips, his finger already pushing in slightly on the trigger. Fear crept into him; he remembered now what his mind was trying to tell him.

The gun was loaded.

It had been in a flurry of discontent, his mind racing and ready to be rid of these constant feelings that he had taken the bullets from his locked desk drawer and loaded the gun fully. He could not remember, even then, how they had gotten there or how he knew they were there. That was why he had decided to stop finally, even though he did not get rid of the gun.

What he had been afraid of in the beginning had come to pass; he'd reached that higher level. His mind was working against him, his own memory attempting to trick him into really killing himself.

His heart rate deafened him, rising above his headache. His blood suddenly ran cold, thinking of how close he had been and how close he still was. Should he do it? He was half-way to pulling the trigger. Would it go off by default if he let go now? Did it matter? How long could he sit like that before a muscle spasm went ahead with it?

No one would hear the gunshot. After all, Mokuba was at Yuugi's…. His throat constricted. `Mokuba.' Oh Ra, how could he seriously think about actually going through with this? And in his room with the door unlocked, in the first place Mokuba would come looking for him, only to find…. He destroyed that thought before it formed. The look on Mokuba's face, even imagined, would be too much for Seto.

Closing his eyes, he eased his finger loose, feeling the trigger slide forward, the hammer clicking softly back into place. He reopened his eyes, staring at the gun as if it were something poisonous. The entire roomed seemed against him. Hiding bullets and loaded guns, not to mention what else he could be unaware of. It had once been Gozaburou's room after all. He thought by taking over and completely redoing the room with new carpet, bathroom tiling, bed and simply everything would give him a sense of superiority over the dead beast. The room would no longer hold those memories; it would be his room now.

Like the many layers of cities over Troy. Destroy one layer, make one on top and forget what's underneath. A sound, but unfortunately wrong plan.

Just staring at the gun was making him angry. He'd almost done it. `Fucking moron,' he scowled at himself. `How could you forget the goddamn gun was loaded? Fucking loser!'

His breathing escalated again, his eyes slitting. `Mokuba would probably cheer if he saw your sorry ass lying blown open on the floor,' the same mind that had tried to save him taunted. `I mean, look at you.'

Seto turned his eyes to the other side of the room where a small dresser sat, its shelf holding a few items, mainly work- related. A wide mirror sat against the wall at the back of the shelf, catching the light from the window across from it. From the angle Seto glaring, he could see himself. It was dark in the room, but he was now accustomed to it. His face was so pale he couldn't have missed it anyway. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, his bare chest just as pale and ugly. He looked pitiful, sick even.

`You see? Disgusting, aren't you? How is it that you've managed to live even this long? Hey,' it mocked, `the gun's still there. Do us all a favor and blow your fuckin…' Seto did not let the insulting, contemptuous voice continue. In a moment of pure, senseless rage he grasped the gun and threw. It flew spinning through the air, hitting the mirror dead-center with a sickening crack. Simultaneously, the impact triggered the gun, a single bullet flying harmlessly into Seto's bed, burrowing a hole through the wooden front before entangling in the wire within the mattress.

Glass rained down around the spinning gun as it landed violently on the dresser, knocking off whatever it hit before lying still on the floor off to the side. The sound of shattered glass filled Seto's world, the last pieces of his sanity falling to the floor and he into darkness.