Work Text:
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when the mansion was at its most quiet peaks, the rustling of sheets was heard. An uncomfortable twist and turn that creased and scattered the crisp, Egyptian-cotton sheets until they were torn from their tucked corners.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, a soft moan was heard from the upper corridor, floating past opened double doors of the master bedroom, because there was no sense in keeping the heat or the cold trapped in. There was nothing to hide in the room. Mokuba was never disallowed from the Seto’s private quarters. It didn’t even have a lock. That was reserved for the office, for when things became too rough for the young vice-president to handle.
But the pull on Seto’s sheets was far rougher. Long, thin fingers grabbed handfuls and pulled it to their whims, up over the head of their master sometimes, or back and away, tossed off the edge of the bed in other instances.
These frenetic motions only happened so often, only cycled when there was fear. When things had freshly gone awry. When thoughts long since settled were poked back to life, wounds reopened and laid bare to be examined. The Kaiba brothers’ eyes could see deep down into one another when bad things happened. They would ask themselves what they were going to do to re-bandage the wounds and move on from it this
Sometimes, Mokuba would wake up, draw himself out of bed, and pad through the hall when he heard the sheets rustling. When he heard the ghostly moans. He’d pass the closed office, and slip into the thrown open double doors of the master bedroom. He would crawl up and into the bed, frustrated to see the mess of blanket’s that Seto had made around himself, because it was hard to burrow under them.
Seto was quiet, now, but moonlight caught the sheen of sweat on his brow. Mokuba curled up close to his brother’s chest and grabbed his hands to pull away the vice grip from the sheets. It wasn’t like they’d done anything wrong.
Instinct made enough space for the pair to comfortably coincide in the bed, never taking up more than half of the mattress. When Seto would seize, Mokuba could feel it, stirred awake again and readjusting his position. He would coaxed Seto to relax, to fall back asleep, though Seto’s eyes never opened. The hours ticked by, unnoticed, sleep consuming them.
Sometimes, Seto would wake up, feeling the small body crawl up and into bed, and his mouth would form a thin line. “Mokuba?”
“Mm,” Mokuba strained. “I had a bad dream, nii-sama.”
“I see,” Seto replied. “Are you okay?”
Mokuba nodded, and he buried his head back in Seto’s chest. They would fall back asleep, with Mokuba at the ready to catch Seto when he began writhing in the sheets again.
Because that was what a good little brother did.