Disclaimer: I do not own or claim to own Yu-Gi-Oh! Or any characters and situations presented in the manga/anime. No profit is gained from the publishing of this story, no copyright infringement intended.

Should this story be deemed offensive by the creator, Mr. Takahashi, his solicitors or any of the (unsettling amount of) companies holding licenses to the series it shall be of course taken down without hesitation.

A/N: Well, here it is: the next update. Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed this story and/or added it (or me respectively) to their favorites. You're awesome!

This doesn't mean anything – Aftermath; An Interlude

Part One - Seto

My first kiss, which I took from her of all people, sold out to the tabloids as if it were nothing special. Which it isn't, isn't it? It is just a kiss, only lips pressed against lips, not something that is painfully intimate. It wasn't even a real kiss; there was no emotion behind it; no love or sympathy either. It was paid for, a service, nothing else. Something I bought with my money, and considering how much I paid for it it's not worth much.

Then why does it bother me so that all of Domino (probably all of Japan) may see now with their own eyes what I arranged for them to see? What is this twisting sensation that I feel that makes me want to tear out the image of her in my arms, our lips pressed together, from every paper placed before me? Why does it bother me that this is nothing that I can cherish?

He is so preoccupied with his anger for not being able to treasure this single memory that he completely ignores the nagging feeling in his gut that ever so persistently keeps wanting to know why exactly he would want to cherish something as unimportant as a kiss taken from the lips of
Anzu Mazaki.

My first kiss, sacrificed on the altar of Vanity and Greed.

It was my fear of how the public eye would perceive me, my company and all that I've worked for, that made me fall into Vanity's trap. It was my hunger for success and appreciation that led me into Greed's.

But isn't this pointless? How much did I sacrifice already; how much did I endure to arrive at the point in life where I am now? How much more to stay there?

I'm used to it by now.

He is not; although he puts quite an effort into trying to make himself believe that he is.

He is human; he aches, just as everyone else does.

He feels cold and heat but he pretends that they cannot touch him.

He feels anger and despair, sometimes even fear, he knows the meaning of pain, knows hope when he sees it, knows hate as well as the back of his hand.

He even knows love, which is a tiny flame in his heart, the only source of warmth he has left, and he guards it well like the precious treasure it is, nourishes it as well as he can, lest the flame should perish, never to be rekindled again.

But he pushes these feelings aside, ignores the confusing multitude of emotions that is tugging on his sleeves, begging for his attention.

He is a child, shouldering the burden of a man.

He doesn't falter under its weight, doesn't stumble or slouch.

But part of him – firmly locked away with all those silly notions of love and happiness, planted into his fragile and defenseless little heart by those that gave him life so many years ago – wishes he would, wishes for someone to take the burden, if only a little of it, and help him to carry it.

She haunts me.

Whenever I close my eyes, I see her face, moments before I bent over to kiss her for the first time. Who painted her portrait to the inside of my eyelids? Why does she seem so alluring all of a sudden? At nights, when I am about to fall asleep, I can feel the ghost of her lips pressed against mine and white hot flames run through my veins, setting my body on fire.

They rob me of my sleep, she and that burning sensation that her memory causes.

He has the world convinced that his blood runs colder than ice water.

It doesn't.

He is a red blooded male.

He can identify the heat keeping him awake at night, knows its real name,

but he doesn't dare to speak it, not even in his mind for fear that the simple act of naming it might make the emotion real, which it mustn't be.

This doesn't mean anything.

I listen to my public relations manager going on and on about how this little shot of me and my 'girlfriend' improved my image already. How much it will improve if we can deliver even more. I want to tell him that there won't be any more pictures of me, not like that, but my tongue doesn't obey me and instead I ask him what he would suggest.

My question pleases him (I've never had much interest for public relations to begin with) and he spreads out several sheets before me. He's actually gone through the trouble of charting the possible success of different scenarios as well as writing scripts for me, general guidelines as to what ought to take place during those carefully crafted scenarios of his.

He calls them 'dates'.

I start to leaf through the charts and scripts. If I do any of this, it won't mean anything; I find it annoying that I have to keep reminding myself of that.

He doesn't question why the meaninglessness of these plans bothers him.

It just does.

Several 'dates' are rejected.

I don't plan on bringing her flowers or little gifts to school, nor will I ever ask her to spend lunch break with me or walk her home from classes. I won't endure the company of the imbeciles she calls 'friends' for longer than necessary, either and I will not allow Mokuba to be involved in this.

This doesn't mean anything.

I cannot afford to waste my time like that; I have a company to run, a little brother to take care of.

But a handful of 'dates' is acceptable and my personal assistant, Ryoko Araide, agrees. All are within plain sight of the public eye; more than enough (willing) chaperones than I'd ever need.

Now all I have to do is… ask her for a date.

And surprisingly, although it doesn't mean anything, he's looking forward to it.