Hi, everyone. I've got another one-shot for you, and this one has quite a bit of meaning to me. It's my first attempts at both Sanada and Atobe, my first attempt at a love triangle, and possibly the most infuriating thing I've ever written.

Holy crap, I just want to punch the Tango pair in their faces.

And because they gave me so much trouble (Yukimura, you're such an angel. Thank you for working with me.), and because it took me so many tries to write (this is the third version of the plot, almost completely different from my original idea), this is also my first betaed one-shot, and I have to give many thanks to my good buddy locket-girl for reading over this, encouraging me that this was really worth finishing, and enduring all of my enraged Sanada threatening.

So, enough of my ranting. I'm tired, but I'm satisfied with how this turned out, and I hope you will enjoy it just as much as I do.

Warnings: Yaoi, but nothing really graphic, and author rage.

Disclaimer: Konomi owns Prince of Tennis, including the most exasperating guy I've ever written; Sanada Genichirou. (Damn you, Sanada)

Guilt

Hard ochre eyes met hard ochre eyes as Sanada stared at himself, his hands gripping the edge of the sink hard enough to make his knuckles turn white. The mirror's eyes seemed to always remain steady, firm, unforgiving, no matter how much confusion and uncertainty twisted and fought in his chest. He furrowed his brow, put off by the absurdity of his own thoughts. The reflection moved along with him, but the eyes still remained the same, and Sanada suddenly found that he could no longer stand to look at himself.

Those eyes were not his.

Those eyes were not capable of the betrayal he committed every day.

Those eyes were not able to love two people at the same time.

He decided that maybe some fresh air would relieve some of his tension. As he meandered towards the front porch, he picked up a thin black jacket to fend against the biting cold that was developing in the late September air.

Twenty minutes later, his fingers had become stiff with cold and the sharp chill in the wind stung at his eyes and nose, but he did feel better. His mind felt clearer, as if his physical discomfort had somehow atoned, just a little, for his disloyalty. He took a long, deep breath, secretly relishing how the dry air burned his lungs on its way down, before turning and walking inside, feeling like he had attained a mild sense of inner peace.

But the persistent ringing of his phone from where it lay on the coffee table was enough to shatter all of the calmness he had acquired, and throw his mind back into that dark pit of uncertainty and guilt. He closed his eyes and just listened to the bark of the phone. He seriously considered just letting it go, but he couldn't tell just who was calling. It could be Yukimura, who rarely called for something that was not related to school or tennis, and always for something important. But it could also be him, who Sanada was more and more convinced only called to torment his mental and emotional stability.

But the risk of him missing out on an important, or worse yet, pressing, matter because he was too scared to pick up his own damn phone was too great, and he mentally chided himself as he dashed over and picked it up on what he was pretty sure would have been the final ring.

He gritted his teeth when he heard who was on the other end. He would always recognize that drawl that sent both delighted and dreaded shivers down his spine. The slight upwards lilt at the ends of his sentences that he hated, but at the same time, couldn't get enough of.

Sanada was sitting in an overly cushy chair, letting his eyes roam around the grandly decorated day room, that he had come to recognize so well over the past several weeks. His weight was sinking down into the padding, and he momentarily had the vague thought of being swallowed alive by the piece of furniture. His normally uncreative mind stopped almost completely as he wondered whether it was some kind of stress, some kind of denial, or some kind of just plain crazy that made him think such an absurd thought. He quickly found that such considerations were quite interesting as he sat there, unmoving, with his eyes narrowed in deep thought.

"Why do you look so confused, ahn?" a silky voice asked as a pair of warm, muscular arms wrapped about his shoulders. The rush of guilt that suddenly flooded his chest then was enough to leave him speechless for several seconds, and he only seemed to be able to watch the other male's pale hands, which began to play with the zipper of his jacket.

"Nothing." His voice sounded thick and quiet in his ears, so he swallowed and tried again.

"Nothing."

A sigh and a puff of warm, mint-smelling air brushed against the side of his neck. Sanada hated how he wanted to just melt into it. The hands moved, leaving hot trails from where they started at his chest, to where they began to knead the junction of his shoulders and neck.

"You're so tense." He said in little more than a purr. Sanada had to admit that those hands felt nice, really nice, but that heavy, ever growing weight in his chest made him shudder and lean away.

"I'm fine, Atobe." He deadpanned, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. The cushioning made doing so a little difficult. He looked over his shoulder to see the Hyotei captain standing behind the chair, hands resting on the back and his mouth quirked into an almost imperceptible frown. Sanada couldn't tell whether the emotion in his navy eyes was one of disappointment or suspicion.

Those eyes narrowed slightly, and Sanada knew he was using his keen intuition to "look" into him, and he barely suppressed a shudder. He would never get used to that. Atobe blinked slowly, and his frown became a little smirk. He had seen something, but there was no telling what. He slinked around the side of the chair, and Sanada was compelled to sit up to meet whatever he was planning.

"What's wrong Genichirou?"

That was the first time the rich captain had ever used his first name. But that was also the last straw. The sense of guilt and shame that came with his name sounding in that suddenly foreign voice threatened to rip him apart from the inside. He found that he had to stare at the lush carpeting for several seconds before he was composed enough to say,

"I have to go."

That had been almost two weeks ago. He had never seen or talked to Atobe again, but he still hadn't come any closer to forgiving himself.

Now he sat on a hard metal bench near Rikkai Dai's tennis courts, panting and pretending that the lactic acid that had built up in his muscles after an entire morning of weekend practice wasn't cramping is shoulders terribly.

The air was now much colder. His wrists and elbows, instead of just his fingers, were stiffening quickly after he had decided to abandon that black jacket halfway through practice. The dry atmosphere felt like it was scraping his lungs raw as he barked at Niou to focus and quit tormenting Akaya.

Even though his body was filled with pain, he felt that no atonement had been given to lessen that heavy lump of shame that was his constant companion lately.

"You're so tense." A gentle voice sounded from behind him as cold fingers began to work slow but firm little circles into his shoulders. Sanada looked over his shoulder to see Yukimura there, his brow furrowed just the tiniest bit in concentration. Soft blue eyes met softening ochre eyes as Yukimura's hands stopped rubbing and began absently smoothing Sanada's yellow jersey across his back. Sanada felt himself frown a little as he realized that with each lazy stroke of the Rikkai Dai's captain's pale hands, the unwelcome companion in his chest seemed to lighten and shrink.

"Is there something wrong Genichirou?" Yukimura asked, his hands never stopping their steady movements. Sanada sighed, more in contentment than relief, and somehow managed to suppress the dumb grin that threatened to show.

"Nothing."

Love it? Hate it? Need improvement? Let me know! I really need some feedback to comfirm that this was worth all the work I put in it.