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: There we go… the next installment. It might be prudent to warn you: this story won't be very long (currently it looks like there will be 6 chapters and 4 interludes, possibly an epilogue, too, but not too sure about that) and no chapter will be longer than 1,500 words, at least not if I can help it.

I'm also a bit… err… at a loss for words, kind of. Some of the authors I personally admire for their writing skill have read this and… some of them put this story on their favorites list and some of them left me a review. So now I am… really… flustered I guess you could say. This is like… woah (yes, very articulate of me, I know).

Anyway, I hope that you guys will like this chapter (if only a little) and perhaps let me know by leaving a review.

Thanks bunches, cookies for all and much much love

Acalanthis

PS – Someone said that they expected the next interlude to be Anzu's point of view. I won't tell you whose it'll be but I can tell you it's not her. In fact you won't be seeing Anzu's point of view for a long time. (Well for nearly as long as this story will be.)

A/N 2: It's kinda funny… I can read my chapters out loud as often as I want to; I can print it and read it over and over again and not find a single mistake. And only AFTER the chapter is published I seem to find tons of them! This is so not fair!

So this chapter, too, has been revised and fixed for errors and I sincerely hope that I caught all of them. Should you find some nevertheless, go ahead and point them out so I can fix them.

Thanks in advance.

Acalanthis (2006-04-09)

This doesn't mean anything – In good company

He is sitting at that table all alone, which is nothing unusual – not for him in any case.

He's typing away on his laptop, a steaming mug of what she presumes to be hot coffee standing forgotten just within his reach, an annoyed scowl firmly in place. Her stomach flutters in nervous anticipation.

She knows all eyes are on her. She's been backed into a corner with no way out. It's not his fault, although he is the reason for her current predicament. She knew that her friends would not take kindly to a picture of them kissing before she agreed to doing it, but she had hoped.

Which was so silly of me, considering everything: his constant competition with Yugi and Yami, his taunting of Jou and worst of all, who he is.

She should have known that they would not be as understanding as they expected her to be towards their own 'antics'. She'd tell them truth, but he has forbidden it. It is part of their contract. He will not be humiliated; will not have this charade unmasked by the taunts of her friends.

Now there she stands, her lunch clutched in one hand, her school bag in the other, and watches him write whatever it is he is writing. Isolated from her friends and their narrow-mindedness (Even if it doesn't mean anything, shouldn't I be able to choose where my heart lies without being abandoned by my friends? Even if it were to be lying with him?) she walks towards him, slowly, calmly, as if she were indeed used to walking up on him while he is engrossed in his work.

He notices a figure approaching and steels himself for the annoying giggling and squeaky whispers of whoever it is that claims to be part of his personal fan club – a club he'd love to get rid off sooner rather than later.

Maybe this little tryst will take care of that, too.

"Do you mind?"

His head snaps up. He hadn't expected to hear that voice at all. She smiles at him timidly. He wants to send her away.

"No, of course not."

He watches her taking the seat next to him, leaving ample space between them. Nevertheless the wooden bench he's sitting on starts to feel impossibly small. He can feel the warmth of her body through his uniform (or so he thinks) and the sweet scent of her perfume tickles his nose pleasantly.

Why isn't she with her friends?

He watches her take out her lunch, a bowl of diced fruits over which she pours some yogurt. He isn't used to seeing her up close like that, isn't familiar with the concept of her doing anything other than being supportive of her friends (or supremely annoying). That has to be the reason why the mundane action of her eating lunch enraptures him so.

His eyes are glued to her lips; those pale pink crescent moons that haunt his every waking hour and torture him in his dreams. He remembers their taste, the feeling of brushing his own lips against her petal-soft ones and wonders what it would be like press his mouth to hers. Right now. In the middle of the cafeteria.

What am I thinking, he scolds himself and forces his eyes back to his laptop. He needs to focus, but he finds her presence more than a little distracting. In his well-organized head a memory rises: the promise to ask her out. His brow furrows and he begins to type away on his laptop viciously.

She tilts her head ever so slightly, confused as to the sudden change in his demeanor. For some reason she wants to tell him to calm down, but the words die on her tongue. She tries not to think about how her mind has been a disarray of emotions and thoughts – one more surprising and confusing than the other.

She's slept, but only so much because her dreams are haunted. Unlike him, however, she can admit to being driven by her hormones. She considers that the emotional hassle she is currently dealing with might be the beginning of an infatuation, stemming from the fact that he gave her her first kiss.

A girl never forgets her first kiss; not even when she's lying old and grey on her dying bed, right, grandma?

She concedes that there are many good points to him: he is handsome which is an open secret; filthy rich which guarantees him headlines in the Monetary Times or Economics Illustrated on a regular basis; he's got a brilliant mind and most of the time either a good taste in clothes or enough common sense to hire someone who does. There is also a boatload of minus points for his more than frigid character, but nobody's perfect.

No, that's not right. He did apologize to me that day. He also said thank you.

That's manners, a voice in her head replies. Surprisingly, it has a strong American accent (Brooklyn, she's been told) and sounds a lot like Jou.

She wants to respond by saying that he loves Mokuba, but fears the voice might counter by reminding her of Jou's obvious love for (any kind of) food.

He snorts in annoyance and for a brief moment she wonders why she's never seen him smile. She's seen him annoyed, bored and angry (plenty of times) and determined, too (although she never again wants to see that particular expression on his face), but never anything else other than that; she realizes this with a start and it bothers her.

How much would his face change if he were to look sad?

She doesn't dare picturing his face happy, lest she finds herself in love with a concoction of her own imagination.

He narrows his eyes at his laptop, clearly frustrated. She's more distracting than he ever imagined her to be. Although she's been sitting next to him in quiet contemplation for a good twenty minutes now, he cannot find it in him to concentrate on his work. He's irritated and makes to grab for his mug which now contains cold tea.

People have him pegged as a coffee-drinker, someone who depends on his daily dose of caffeine. But people are often wrong and although he insists on a cup of black coffee every morning his reasons for wanting it are completely different. Personally, though, he prefers tea. It brings him the luxury of serenity between all those hectic encounters that make up an average day of his life.

The date. I still have to ask her for that date…

"So…"

She looks at him, questioningly. He knows she won't decline his invitation and he is surprised to find that this knowledge is equally disturbing and comforting.

This doesn't mean anything.

"What are your plans on… Friday?"

She blinks owlishly at him in obvious confusion. It's an expression that doesn't belong on her face although a quiet voice in his head reminds him that he used to think of her as the stereotypic cheerleader – a nice little package that comes with an ample bust, long shapely legs and little to no brains.

"I have dance classes until seven."

She pauses, looking thoughtfully at him. He knows she has it all figured out by now.

You're not that dumb.

Finally, she asks why.

"I was wondering if perhaps you would like to go out."

The additional "with me" goes unspoken. It's not needed. He watches her closely, waiting for her reply while his hands begin to clear away his belongings. Ten minutes left. She smiles one of those charmingly blinding smiles.

"I'd love to."

He wants to remind her that this doesn't mean anything. Badly.

"Pick me up at eight thirty?"

He shakes his head.

"I'll pick you up at nine."

He stands, closing his laptop without saving. His gaze drops to her. He cannot bring himself to take in their surroundings, knowing fully well that he just fed the rumor mill enough to last until next week.

She's still smiling, a smile that – if he didn't know any better – would convey the emotion of her being genuinely happy. He gives her a short, sharp nod then picks up his laptop and briefcase and leaves.

This doesn't mean anything.