Disclaimer: I do not own YGO, the song referenced below, or the house of Hermes.

Soundtrack: "Alaska," Maggie Rogers

Scent: Cedre Sambac by Hermes

Photo: gray sheets of rain blanketing the city, the kind that washes away all the color

...

Anzu waited by the phone, expectant.

There was a small crease on her left leg from the edge of the leather sofa, a well-worn book in her lap, and the sense of waiting, of expectancy, in the mist of her breath. Outside, the air is chilly and frosty with the promise of rain. The river in the distance is foggy, too; with the miles in between, the scenery looked almost like Cairo with the tiny boats and small specks of green.

Sighing, Anzu closed her eyes.

Almost is the operative word. It was almost fall, almost Cairo, and, if she believed long enough, maybe he would bypass the stage of almost calling to actually calling.

He had never been much of a phone person. Modern technology seemed foreign, like an untried delicacy or a game that couldn't be won. He wouldn't have understood the modern concept of "keeping in touch" by a small pixelated screen any more than he would have understood the puzzle that is an unbeatable game. Their peers treated modern romance like a weird, mixed-up mash-up of the two, conflating the occasional call with interest and the occasional disregard as "playing hard to get," but Anzu knew better, at least when it came to one man.

There were no games with Atem. He didn't play them, at least not in the sense most people would have thought of games. To Atem, games were a livelihood, a calling, a destiny. Any number of pieces and rules could have been conjured out of thin air and he would have still beaten them all— if he wanted to play, that is.

So it wasn't surprising that he wouldn't call. He wasn't playing the waiting game. He was gone, away, far, far away, into a time and space that no mortal calling plan could ever reach. She had thought at first the worst of the pain would be the first couple of days after Cairo, when the wound was fresh and every glance at Yugi brought a fresh marinade of salt into her heart. That pain had been short, frequent, and brutal; this pain— this feeling of almost— this pain was constant like a cheap New York City radiator accompanied by the persistent, internal hum of the garbage trucks sweeping the outside streets.

It didn't hurt to lounge by the phone on her days off from studio practice and rehearsals, really. The chair was comfortable when her legs weren't asleep. The book was old and comforting, a gift from Mai and Serenity. The air was damp with rain and tears, and she's not sure if they're her gift to him or his gift to her.

Maybe it was both.

(And maybe he would call one day, when she wasn't waiting by the phone.)

...

*le sigh*

Rainy mood+dream indie pop=perfect for brooding