Hold On

Warnings: sexuality, language

Summary: A "morning after" one-shot in Sanosuke POV

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To lose a game of chance, wager more than either player can afford.

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   I crack my eyelids open wide enough for my eyes to hurt, which doesn't take much.  I close them quickly so that I don't go blind.

   Morning is nice and all, sunlight and chirping birds and breakfast, but it's murder for a hangover.  No matter how long I wait, it's always too bright when I get up.

   Actually, my headache isn't too bad, even though I drank plenty last night.  It must have been less than usual.  But I don't really care, because sun or not, this is a pretty good morning.

   Last night was even better.  I wasn't sure if it would be worth it, but now that it's over, I feel like it really worked out.  The sex wasn't half-bad either, though definitely a one-time experience.  I chuckle and reach out with my arm to knock him awake.

   He's not there.

   I open my eyes and sit up.  My clothing is in a pile by the door, and the blanket--we never even used it--is in its own pile by the opposite wall.  He's gone, he left me, but it's impossible to tell he was here in the first place.  There's barely a dent on the pillow, much less a note or an excuse.  The least he could have done was tip me.

   I throw myself back down onto the bed with my eyes and cheeks burning.  He would do something like that--treat me like a whore, or worse: nothing at all.  One more way to show me how fucking worthless I am to him.  Except I'm not--he proved last night that I mean something.

   It was last night that I ran into him, in a rundown tavern.  It wasn't expected; I'd just been looking to get drunk in private, maybe have a little fun with the cute serving girl.  When he appeared out of the shadows, playing up the dark and mysterious angle, it was almost surreal.

   I laughed at his outfit, the infamous pharmacist get-up that hid a master swordsman.  Even funnier was the way he was careful to hide his calluses.  I'd figured he wanted to arrest me on the bogus charge I was still dodging, so I asked him to sit down and join me for a drink.  I thought it would throw him off, but there wasn't a reaction.  Same old bastard.  I should have known I couldn't get one up on him.

   I definitely know now.  I'd thought I could beat him at his own game, give myself a victory by trapping him with his own actions, his word even, but apparently vows don't count for useless street punks.

   I don't even know why I was stupid enough to take the chance in the first place.  I think it was because he acted so strangely, still arrogant and condescending but not in the usual way--more distant and weary.  I tried to get a rise out of him by jabbering on about nothing in particular, but he barely reacted at all except for the automatic name-calling.  There was tiredness at the edges of his eyes that made me angry.  He wasn't supposed to be old or weak; I knew the real man was still under the surface, ignoring me.  I wanted to push him, to see a spark of anger, malice, or amusement escape his control, but nothing worked.

   Late into the night he stopped talking altogether, just stared blankly ahead and touched my hand.  I probably should have figured it out right away, just from that, but it wasn't something I'd been anticipating and I was distracted, trying to get him to fight.  On my way to being very drunk, too.  But suddenly, through my buzz, I finally understood why he had approached me, what his hand on mine meant.

   I was shocked, thrown off balance--I hadn't ever thought of him that way, or dreamed he would think of me that way.  Aside from one brief experiment years ago, and what I gathered from rumours and common sense, I knew nothing about sex with a man and didn't care to.

   But my mind began presenting me with the possibilities.  Getting a reaction from him was one thing, but a plan was forming in my head that could get me a lot more.  The idea was very risky and a little distasteful, but he's not too ugly--his eyes are actually sexy in a very creepy way--and the alcohol strengthened my nerve.  I knew if everything worked out right, he wouldn't ever be able to look down on me again without making a fool of himself for desiring me.

   I was excited, curious, confused, and very nervous as I tried to kiss him.  When he pushed me back before I could reach him, I was instantly worried my instincts had screwed up and I'd made a complete ass of myself.  Then he mumbled his first words in over an hour.  "Not here."

   I could have taken those words as an absolute no; I was baring my throat to get at his vulnerability, and I'd already felt one sharp nip.  I couldn't back down, though.  Aside from showing him his weakness, I wanted-- needed to know how far the weakness went, how much he wanted me.

   I got up from the table.  If he didn't want it there, I'd find somewhere else to override his restraint, take away his security blanket of control, and give him what he'd never admitted he wanted until last night.  Lost in those thoughts, I nearly fell flat on my face when I stood up on numb legs.

   But I made it outside and waited thirty torturously long seconds.  I was so tense that when he exited the tavern and walked towards me, I actually grabbed him to make sure he wouldn't leave.

   I tried to kiss him again too.  He wouldn't let me, but he did hold me tightly and run his fingers through my hair.  I was afraid for a bit, faced with the reality of his desire, but I reminded myself I could handle whatever he wanted to dish out.  I wasn't about to underestimate myself or give in to fear.

   He wanted me to take him to the inn where I was staying, so I practically dragged him through the streets, fed up with doubts and anticipation.

   I'd been worrying what I would do when we got there, but it was all out of my hands; he did what he wanted and I went along for the ride.  All I really remember is hands, slickness, and pressure.

   I think we were both done quickly, but it might have happened twice--I can't say for sure.  The details don't really matter, though.  It wasn't the best I'd had and his breath was terrible, but I was certain I'd reached my goal when he didn't try to take off as soon as we finished.

   After I caught my breath, I made him promise he wouldn't disappear in the morning.  I needed to be certain he wouldn't be able to run off and pretend I never happened.  Getting him to succumb was only the first part; I needed him to acknowledge it too.  He mumbled a quiet "all right" before tucking his face into my neck and drifting off.

   Angry that I could be so fucking stupid and he could be so fucking cold, I sit up, unable to get back to sleep.  I thought his word would be enough, but it obviously wasn't.

   I didn't want him to stay forever; I'm not pining for a meaningful relationship.  Even though the sex wasn't horrible, I'm not gay.  I slept with him to prove to a point: he's not better than me, not when he was the one who wanted to fuck in the first place.  He was supposed to understand that--meet me face to face, man to man.  Instead, I was left behind, like a whore, as all my hard work falls apart.

   I know what happened this morning.  He woke up and understood everything.  He realized he's not perfect, I'm not irrelevant, and the world isn't under his complete control because his control isn't complete.  Then he walked out like the arrogant coward he is.

   Or, he woke up, gloated to himself about his newest conquest, sneered at my eagerness to let him bed me, forgot about his own show of weakness, and walked out like the sadistic bastard he is.

   I get out of bed.  It doesn't make any sense to stay there, waiting like an idiot for him to come back.  Stretching sore limbs, I stalk across the room to my clothing.  Moving hurts; my body feels like I was attacked by forty bandits, none afraid to use their teeth.

   It's not surprising that he was so violent.  A man like him, forced to restrain his aggressive nature in polite society, is bound to be a vicious fighter and lover.  Last night's activities were fast and brutal, leaving scrapes, bruises, and little cuts all over me, including slivers in my elbow.  He even bit me.  The marks don't hurt too much--I've had worse--but I'm pissed off that he managed to leave so many of them, like he fucking owns me, even though he doesn't want me.  I can remember thinking the same thing about the scar on my shoulder.  He doesn't seem to understand that he can't keep doing things like this to me if he won't let me forget it, or if he forgets it himself.  He's still underestimating my ability to fight back.

   I never asked for him in my life, and I don't want him to stay in it.  He ridicules me, uses me, ignores me, hurts my friends, and walks away from it all over and over again, like the laws of man don't apply to him because he is the law of man.  Like he's above it all.

   He doesn't get to walk away this time.  I won't roll over for him or let it slide, because that would mean he really does own me.  This was his fuck-up, not mine, and I don't have to pay for it.  I understand gambling, and I gambled, but I understand cheating too, and he cheated.

   So I'm going to find him and make him remember every detail of last night.  I'll show him every damn bruise on my body if I have to, and denounce him in public if it comes to it.  I'll tell the world about his weakness, and how he tried to run from it, make his failing into mine.  He might kill me after, but I'm going to finish this fight, and I'll be damned if I'm going to lose.

   I've got no idea where he is right now, but Japan isn't that big, and I've got time.  And when I do find the bastard, he's going to be the one that walks away changed.

   Pulling on my jacket, I leave the room without hesitation, making a mental note to find more bandages.  In my mind, I can see his condescending smirk.  I ache to knock its teeth out.

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Feedback: Was it what you were expecting?  Do you think Sanosuke reacted in a likely way?  Does this change your interpretation of the events in "Close Your Eyes"?  What do you think of the pacing?  Do you sympathize more with Sanosuke or Saitou?