His breaking point is the lack of note scribbled through the condensation on the bathroom's mirror.
"Why're you calling?"
He's come to realize, as of recent, that he's missing the things he'd never thought salient. The absence of quiet little croons of misheard lyrics, of receiving texts accentuated in a myriad of emoticons, the words around them always sweet, sweet, sweet. He's noticed, too, he hasn't been pestered to wear his glasses when reading. And he's noticed that his eyes hurt.
"...I wanted to hear your voice."
He's noticed that, when he does happen to read, there's no eyes over his shoulder, no voice asking him not to yet turn the page. There, he'd always huff- as it was always a vexation. Still, he'd always wait.
"Why?"
Always. What a word- what a heavy word, gooey with the animosity toward its meaning being decimated.
"Because."
It's never this cold in Autumn. Everything is gelid.
The other end of the line is too quiet to soothe him. He goes on, and it's difficult- good Lord, does he grapple.
"And...I figured it would be rude of me to visit uninvited."
Laced within the grooves of each syllable- hesitance. Vocal missteps are something he cannot afford in such a moment so weighted by tension.
"You had no problem with it before," soft lips spill, ones that've made contact with every inch of him, ones that he's gazed at with hazy eyes as they part and press and pucker, and spread around teeth to catch mirth over a span of years.
A cord of silence furls the tendrils of asphyxia through him. And when those pretty lips fall lax from their purse again, he contracts every muscle.
"I'm over it." His vision casts elsewhere- not in submission, but rather, he feels, absence. Lazy brushes of orange meld across the evening's horizon. He's used to it, he's used to it. But- this time -the clouds don't grow blurry as his eyes lose their apathy. "I'm so, so over it all."
"Yuugi."
Name falls to deaf ears. Deaf ears and blank eyes- oh, how he desires to be shrouded from the outer world.
"I'm tired, Seto."
"I know you are," Kaiba allows, and he's traipsing upon glass, glass that reflects no light, no prism shining iridescence in all directions. "I wish you wouldn't do this."
There's a noise from his conversation partner that lets him know for certain he's said exactly the wrong thing. "What am I doing?"
Shut up, shut up, shut up. Stop while you can. Stop before you lose him for good. "...Forget it."
"I don't understand you," Yuugi says. It's biting. "I don't understand why nothing is ever your fault. It's like your pride is more important to you than I am."
The temperature's got to be in the singular digits. Autumn's never this cold. September has hardly claimed ownership over the world. It's too cold.
"I know that isn't true," he goes on. "It just feels that way sometimes. I love you so much, Seto- and you keep pushing me away, and thinking you can magically make everything better with a phone call. This isn't how relationships are supposed to go."
"I'm making an effort." Fingers skirt through hair, ghost past ghostly eyes. "I'm trying, Yuugi."
Breath exchanges through the receiver, and he's sure it's a breeze. "This is the third time we've broken up in a year."
"I'm aware."
"Something's gotta give."
"I know," he assures, as if it's what he's been bred to relay. "Let's...let's talk."
The weather should aim a quiver through him. He's staring; his eyes bleed a quiet storm, and he's staring at the lethargic evening, and there's a dog across the street- a hound of some sort -and it's a discordant mess of howls. He thinks about the smell of crackling thunder and laundry soap. His lighter ran out of fluid last Thursday. He heard a song on the car radio this morning that he did not hate. He'd switched it off after the first verse. That hound is nettling.
"...Okay," Yuugi says at last, and his eyes- they're the softest thing Kaiba's ever known. "You start."