Disclaimer/Note: I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh!, or either of the characters used in this story. They belong to Kazuki Takahashi, and whoever he sold his soul to. This fic was written solely for the amusement of those choosing to read it, and no copyright infringement was intended. All original concepts/ideas and the story itself are original (duh) and belong to me. Do not steal. This is a two-part sequel to my other Logicshipping fic, Dreamer . Please enjoy.

Unfinished Masterpiece

The cigarette tasted dry and dead in his mouth, tar and toxins burning on the way down his throat to his lungs without care or acknowledgement. His long fingers were employed at the keyboard, clacking away noisily as his gaze flitted over the screen in front of him. There was a noise nearby, a faint static crackling in his ear. It was just loud enough to be noticeable, to grate on his nerves and make him grind his teeth in agitation. He stopped, hands clenching into fists as he closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on the voice that preceded it. But she was silent now, and he could not remember what they had been discussing. An angry curse escaped him, and he snapped his laptop closed, leaning back in his chair and removing the cigarette from his mouth.

"You're going to have to repeat that, Ishuza."

She laughed in response, the sound far away and slightly tinny. Had there been no interference, he would have likened it to some foreign music; would have indulged the desire to wax poetic on the subject. But now, instead of bringing that slightly awkward smile to his face, it only worsened his pounding migraine. He frowned. She did not laugh often, especially for him, and it bothered him to no end that he could not properly enjoy it. The cigarette found its way back to his lips, and he inhaled deeply.

"I had asked you how business was. Your 'Grand Prix' seemed to go well---"

"Go well?" he interrupted her suddenly, repeating her words in an incredulous tone. They were slightly muffled by his cigarette. "Go well? Compared to what?"

". . .Battle City," she answered after a moment's hesitation, her smile evident though he could not see her face. He could easily imagine the way her expression would soften, the curvature of her mouth that she would try to hide from him. She was probably doing it right now, tilting her head down and to one side, gently chewing her lower lip when she did so. It always made her look younger, somehow more innocent. Untouched. A sigh, and he rubbed at his eyes tiredly. Just thinking about his prior promotional endeavor made his head hurt. He finished the cigarette, grinding the filter into an already full ashtray next to the 'In' box.

"True, but only because no one died in this one," he stood from his desk chair then, moving behind it to stare out the large expanse of glass that acted as both wall and window of his office. His fingertips brushed its surface lightly, marring its clear perfection with the natural oils from his hand. The glass was cold, impersonal, smooth. He rested his forehead against it, closing his eyes again. It felt nice, but did nothing to keep his mind from her. He still saw her, brushing back the loose strands of her thick black hair that constantly fell forward into her face. Sometimes he would reach out and do it for her, and when he did, she would look at him with that drowsy intimacy that made his hands twitch and blood race. "Which reminds me. . .when can I see you again?"

An unnatural pause, awkward, fidgety over the static in his ear. He could imagine her shifting uncomfortably where she sat, smoothing non-existent creases in her white dress as she stalled for time. Or perhaps she had reached up to touch the pale scar tissue on her neck, now usually hidden by extravagant gold chokers. Her lips would be moving to form words she had no intention of saying, would silently stumble over useless replies until she came to an acceptable one. He gave her all the time in the world to find it.

"Do I always come to mind when you think of death?"

"Just answer the question, Ishuza."

"Oh. . ." she was struggling with something, not some word or phrase but something less substantial, more important. Gently, he reached up to touch the earpiece of his headset as the static in the background got louder. He was about to ask if she was still there when he heard her tiny response, nearly whispered from the speaker. "I don't think that it's a very good idea to keep---"

"Don't you dare try to run away from me, goddamnit," he interjected with a snarled, eyes snapping open into an angry glare and an ugly scowl taking up residence on his countenance. A part of him knew that she had recoiled when he said that, knew that she had hunched her shoulders and turned her head as though he had just slapped her smartly across the face. His other hand clenched into a fist on the surface of the window, and he cursed himself for his tactlessness, his blatant cruelty. But he could not change, no matter how hard he tried. He bit back hundreds of harsh words every time they spoke and yet it was never enough.

How did she stand it? He wondered, swallowing hard. He was a monster; a pitifully hateful excuse for a human being. Absorbed as he was by his pride, his vengeance, how had she managed to care for him? To force her way into his thoughts? Or, perhaps more importantly, why did she bother? They were questions that he could not bring himself to ask out of a vague fear that he would not like the answer.

". . .I would never run from you, Set," she whispered, intimate, slightly breathy. Seto shivered when she said his name, when she cut it short like that. "I had meant to tell you earlier, but it. . .it slipped my mind. . ."

"Get to the point, Ishuza; what are you talking about?"

"You know that I was only here in Japan on business, so it shouldn't come as any surprise that I'm on my way to the airport as we speak; my flight leaves within the hour."

"But you ca---" he snapped his teeth down on his tongue, silencing himself. But you can't leave, he had been going to say. You are mine, a beautifully unfinished masterpiece in my exquisite collection. Quickly, he turned from the view out his window, casting his gaze around his office for something. He took a deep, steadying breath, licking his lips before making up his mind about what to do with this recent turn of events. A part of him begged him not to. You are going to regret it, it said, it pleaded with him. You will never be able to take it back ; do not do this. But he ignored the warning. "Well, then. I'm sure that your fellow inbred cultists will be equally glad to have you back."

". . .Is that all you have to say to me, Set?" she sounded hurt, like he had shattered some vague hope or belief of hers. She also sounded angry, like the disillusionment had left her as violently bitter as it had left him. But it did not matter, he told himself. She was leaving. Not Japan, but him. Abandoning him, and what they had, or what they could have had if she just stayed. He felt betrayed, and vengeance was his top priority.

"It's just that you seem so fucking thrilled to be able to go back to your little hole in the ground. I suppose that things are better for you there, underneath a crumbling third-world country, aren't they?" he growled the question through clenched teeth. He had wanted to sound careless, but that plan had fallen through. But as long as it hurt her, it would be okay. Because that was what he was supposed to do; he was supposed to hurt her, and he cursed himself for it. She was leaving and all he could think about was making her suffer. Shaking, he reached for his cigarettes, pulling one out as he fumbled with the lighter. He wanted to hate her, desperately needed to hate her for this, but found that he could not manage to pin the emotion with her soft lapis eyes.

Fuck.

". . .That's really it, isn't it? That's how you have to end this?" her voice quivered, and it sounded like she might -- had she been any other woman -- be on the verge of tears. He opened his mouth to speak, to try to take it back. To apologize, but his throat closed around it, his pride crippling the attempt. And another. And another. He heard her sharp inhalation, and could feel the weight of her glare as she prepared her final words for him. "I am sorry that things got out of hand; it was just supposed to be one game of chess. And while I don't expect you to care, I want you to know that I woke up this morning loving you, and wishing you were there with me."

The lit cigarette fell from his stunned fingers, his mouth left open in shock. They did not say things like that to each other; they did not let themselves fall in love with one another. Seto let out a shaky breath that he had not realized he had been holding. She had implied a world -- nay, an entire universe -- of snuffed out possibilities between them. She had just made a confession of love in past tense. Seto swallowed hard, and tried to speak:

"I. . .Ishuza, I---"

"Good-bye, Set," she spoke tersely, and it was quickly followed by the distinctive sound of her hanging up. The light on his cell phone turned off automatically, and he let his gaze drop to the smoldering cigarette on the carpet. He was silent for a long time, thinking about the way she had said 'good-bye'. She meant that it was over, whatever it was that they had had. She meant that she would no longer be a work of art to be displayed, she would never again be that same sculpted goddess that he had worshipped in the privacy of his mind. Finally, the brooding depression setting in gave way to anger, and he ripped his headset off his ear.

"That bitch!" he screamed the words, squeezing his eyes shut. He felt his arm come back and then snap forward, rocking his body with the momentum of the throw. A moment later, and the device smashed into the screen of the television that was set into the left wall of his office, delicate hardware shattering. His breathing was rapid and irregular as he headed for the door. For the elevator. For his car.

For the airport.