Lover Alone
A Yu-Gi-Oh Fanfiction
by Azurite

seventh-star DOT net

This fic is for the 30kisses LiveJournal Community (original list, theme #4 - our distance and that person) and is also for Round #1 of the ygolyricwheel, "Whispers." The song is "The Dumbing Down of Love," by Frou Frou. Lyrics are included at the bottom of the fic merely for "mood-setting" sake. This is NOT a songfic. It IS a oneshot, and will NOT be continued.

I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh, its characters, or the song. No profit is made from this fanfiction whatsoever. It's a work of entertainment, and nothing more.


There are moments in life when things happen, and they simply defy explanation. It is not that they are bizarre or mysterious or paranormal— they merely defy explanation because "the reason why" is inside us, lurking there all along.

We know why it happens, but we can't bring ourselves to say.

There is a reason why "we" can never be… and we both know it. I know you understand, I know you're aware of it— I see it every time I look into your eyes. It is a simple thing we have in common —the color of our eyes. That, and the way that even the profoundest of messages can be conveyed with a simple glance.

There is a reason for the distance between us. We put ourselves in this position, it's true. No one can take the blame for the way things are now but us. I wouldn't have it any other way, either. Shunting the blame to someone else is cowardly.

I'm no coward. I've run away in the past, been defeated… but I'm no coward.

Even if I changed in this instant, and gave up everything that I was, that made me who I am today, that makes me act the way I do… it wouldn't change anything. You would feel the same, as would I, and we would be stuck, caught in this perpetual cycle of not being able to do anything about it. If anything, a drastic change in any direction would push you further away from me.

Forward or backward, it makes no difference.

We are "stuck," separated.


You're constantly looking angry at the world. You act as though there is no one to blame but yourself, but I can tell by the look in your eyes that you internally blame everyone and everything else. It's the world's fault for putting you in this position, my fault for looking at you the way I do. You might have initially blamed your own body for reacting the way it did when you first felt the physical signs— the heart palpitations, the blood rushes, the flushing of the cheeks…

Your weak heart, your poorly-oxygenated blood, your allergy medicines…

No, you're never to blame for anything. There are always other circumstances.

That's why feelings of any kind never seem to amount much to you. It doesn't matter what end of the scale they're at; it might be anger and it might be sadness, but you never feel it wholly, and with every part of your being, the way so many millions of other people do. If you ever do feel anything, it's in a short burst— like a bright light from a candle, suddenly being extinguished.

So it wouldn't matter even if I did something different, even if I looked differently, dressed differently, or bothered to get up for once, get up and walk right up to you… and say it. Just say what I know we're both feeling, but we both keep avoiding.

For "one reason or another," for that one circumstance. That one person.


Neither of us knows what will happen. That is the honest truth, and that is probably what stalls us— behind all the lies and excuses, the reality is that we are afraid of what we do not know. We can't possibly predict the future; there is no way of knowing if everything will add up the way we think it will…

And both of us are terrified by the prospect of what the other will say. But that's all we know. That's the only definitive fact between us, except…

Except how we feel. Except what we want.


A single night out of hundreds, perhaps more. For once, away from the prying eyes of friends and admirers. It makes no sense that either of us would be able to find solace in a crowd like this, surrounded by groups of the rich and famous, all tittering away and sipping at their wine glasses. But we don't look out of place— no, you're the corporate executive, dressed immaculately in your suit, and I'm your stunning escort, wearing what absolutely must be a designer label gown. And my jewels certainly look real, don't they?

We're so good at fooling everyone. We take amusement in this, pride in this. We share a secret smile, knowing we've thought the same thing at the same time. But the moment passes, and the simple gesture is rendered meaningless.

Any conversation we have flows in one ear and out the other. We talked, but neither of us paid attention to what we were saying anymore than what the other person said in reply. All that mattered was you and me, "alone" in this crowd, for once not separated by anyone or anything— except maybe a silly table and our own layers of lies.

And then the check comes, and you stop me before I can even withdraw my wallet from my purse. It's not that you're being gentlemanly. You have an excuse at the ready. To anyone else, you might sound rude— saying that I'm not famous yet, not rich, therefore I shouldn't even attempt to be paying for one meal, let alone two, at such an upscale restaurant as this.

One lie layers on top of another.


We're not getting anywhere with this. It's the sad truth, and both of us know it. It doesn't matter what few moments we can capture together, or how little the distance between us seems when our lips are pressed together in kisses that seem to last…

I can't say the word. It has no meaning for me, no meaning in reality. There's no such thing as "that word."

There will always be something between us. If not time, then physical space, and if not that… then him. Always him.

And so it ends between us. It ends before it really begins.

Suddenly, time seems to go by at a much more rapid pace, and months fly by without contact.

You've moved on. I'm sure of it. I have, too… at least, that's what I convince myself.

But then I hear that music— that same music from the ballet. You were just a simple chorus girl back then, but my eyes were always fixed to you. I memorized every move you made on every beat of the music. Every pulsating rhythm, every note…

It happens before I even realize it— one by one, tears are falling down my face, because I can't stop thinking of you.

I want to call you, I want to span this distance between us. I want to ask you the question neither of us ever seemed to have the courage or the reasoning to ask. I want to tell you what you already know —but you don't know, not for sure, because you haven't heard it from my own lips. You rightly suspect, that is all. You are "aware" because of what you have seen, what "intuition" you possess. But you don't know, and I know you want to.

How I feel… how you feel…

If I do this —break the space and distance between us— will you leave his memory behind? Will you miss him —miss the thought of him, the idea, the things that he stood for? Will you truly be able to be with me, the way I know you want to be?

Will you try?


And that's the end of that ficlet, "Lover Alone." As stated before, the song is Frou Frou's "The Dumbing Down of Love," and I'm sure you can see how the lyrics influenced the story by looking at them, below:

Well painted passion
You rightly expect
Impersonation
The dumbing down of love
Jaded in anger
Love underwhelms you
No box of chocolates
Whichever way you fall
And if I tell you
Lover alone without love
What will happen
Lover alone without love
Will you listen
Lover alone without love
No no I'll get this
I want to treat you
You're still not famous and you haven't struck it rich
Underachieving
'Cause no-one's receiving
This tunnel vision
Is turning out all wrong
Music is worthless unless it can make a
Complete stranger break down and cry
And if I tell you
Lover alone without love
What will happen
Lover alone without love
Will you miss him?
Lover alone without love
Without love
Without love
Without love