Reviewers
Thank you all for reading Anger. This is the second installment – Sloth - and I am profusely sorry for the lateness of this chapter. Once again, I do not own any characters that feature in this fanfiction. The only profit I get from this is the amusement and knowledge that I am spreading the tango pair love.
Thank you Kira who had beta'd the first edition, however I have changed this since and it has gone unbeta-d. Also a thank you to shinobee for pointing out some mistakes. If there are any more mistakes, please feel free to point them out and I will gladly correct them. Now onwards!
Sloth.
The clock continued to tick rhythmically in the corner; the incessant mechanical skip around the clock face the only sound in the darkness. He was waiting. It seemed that was all he ever did: wait. He eased himself into a high panel chair, providing a stunning view of the city; lights glistening with the busy nightlife. The glass provided a shield from the busy hustle and bustle of the office workers going home or the young beautiful things that were so naïve of the world that they constantly search for amusement each night. He waited.
The belief of a perfect relationship is only what a deluded mind concocts; it never is the fairytale ending that so many men and women alike assure themselves that their partner is the one. Just like how his love towards his insufferable partner was starting to fray at the edges. It isn't always about the birds and the bees. The arguments daily and the absence of that one man was the result of all the stress and animosity that had grown between them without their knowledge; he knew this relationship was killing him, draining him. Physically and mentally.
Of course, they might not have an argument. His mind argues, nostalgic about the passionate love making that was to suffice as a sort of apology. It might always be a ploy to shut you up a rational logical part of his mind piped up. He decided he didn't like that part of his mind. Pulling off his silver-framed glasses, he set the pair of expensive glasses on the side table to join an assortment of empty liquor bottles.
The grandfather clock chimed as the big hand finally hit the o'clock. Atobe stared at the heirloom; the giant clock having been passed down for many generations in his family now resided in his apartment that he shared with Sanada. He chuckled bitterly at the useless thought, gripping the neck of a wine bottle and took a deep swallow. The alcoholic liquid burned down his throat and he savoured the strange feeling; comforting yet a unique experience altogether.
After mulling over the past few weeks, he continued to wallow in his sorrow; and in a fit of rage threw the bottle clear across the room at the immaculate white walls. The bottle easily broke into many pieces, leaving a smear of red on the wall. Such was the vibrant colour of red wine, he mused, red wine that looked so alike the red blood that ran in his veins. The same red blood that had once flowed freely from his wrists as he once had slid the skin that kept all that dark, dark liquid inside.
He could not feel all the more hopeless and once again he stared at the intricate face of the old grandfather clock. He isn't coming home. With a tired sigh, Atobe placed his right hand over his face and succumbed to the persuasive hands of sleep that had tugged at him ever since the little black hand of the timepiece had passed midnight.
He woke up later from his dreamless slumber; sunlight streaming down upon his face. In an attempt to block out the offending rays of light, Atobe threw his right arm over his face. It was on days like this, when he woke up alone on the spacious king-sized bed, that he regretted having to depend on company. Lonely mornings always felt cold and the emptiness in his heart made him so very alone.
Turning his head to the left, he cracked open his left eye to observe the white cotton sheets that adorned his bed. The same white cotton sheets that appeared so sterile and artificial; bleak and bare. Like the hygienic atmosphere that he had experienced so many years ago when he had been hospitalised by frantic parents that never knew. They were so unaware of the way their son truly felt and ignorant of the façade that had been so convincingly genuine. The white linen made his sun-kissed skin stand out like a beacon and sometimes, sometimes, he felt like an intruder in his own home.
Minutes rolled by, and Atobe didn't move. His mind wasn't functioning properly and the usual rational part of his mind was on mute. With a heavy sigh, he rolled over to the other side of the bed. No one had slept on this side for nearly a month – or so it felt like to him – and there was an ache in his heart like a part of him was missing.
Burying his nose into the pillow, he could still smell the way his lover had every morning after a post-coital snuggle. A spicy mix of inexpensive soap, Atobe had tried to wean Sanada off the cheap stuff to a more fragrant bath gel that he had shipped every Sunday from a little shop in England; Atobe's aftershave and that damn hat of his, even if it had been abandoned upon entering university – or so Sanada had said.
The day wore on and he didn't move; muscles had a sense of weight to them as if lead bars had been tied to every joint in his body. Atobe continued to brood, finding no desire to eat or move; his mind blissfully selected the option of turning blank. He heard the surprised gasp of the cleaning maid, unused to the still figure of her employer and quickly dashed out with a muffled apology. Normally, he and Sanada would both have been at work and if Atobe guessed the time, he had a suspicion that Sanada would usually be waiting in the lobby of his office. How nostalgic.
Warm bright colours of the sun and day slowly faded into the cooler, darker hues of night. Atobe curled up in a foetal position, head on Sanada's pillow, and willed himself not to let the solitude and silence affect him so much. He pondered over at the probability of his life running in accordance to his master plan and was defeated by even the muted rational part of him.
It never does.
Closing his eyes once again, he willed the cold from his heart away. Atobe pulled the cotton sheets even tighter around him; the linen doing nothing to keep the solitude at bay.
Sanada turned the key and pushed the unlocked door silently open. He glanced down at the silver watch that was adorned on his wrist; the little glow-in-the-dark hands pointing at an hour that people were normally asleep. Walking into the entrance hall, he dumped his briefcase and traversed the threshold to find his sleeping lover.
With a small fond smile, he shrugged off the trench coat and draped the coat over the slighter man; wishing that instead of the fabric that touched Atobe's skin, was himself. However, Sanada was uncertain that the physical contact would be welcome and due to the friction between them over the past month, he wasn't even sure if Atobe warranted his permission to touch him at all.
Running his hand through his hair which fundamentally brushed back his bangs, Sanada surveyed the living room. From the last time he had visited he was pretty sure that red streak of- his heart wrenched as he strode towards the splash. There was broken glass surrounding the mark and he picked up a shard; careful of the sharp edges. He signed in relief when he realised it was not blood; not Atobe's blood.
But was this a sign of what could have happened? Sanada shuddered at the thought, hoping to all gods that he did not have to meet Atobe Keigo in his operating theatre ever again. Sanada carefully picked up the broken wine bottle and disposed of the pieces with only a minor scratch on his thumb.
The apartment was a wreck in short. Piles of empty carton boxes that once were filled with steaming Chinese food lay on the counter top; wooden chopsticks still protruding from within them. Had he fired some of his cleaning staff in anger sometime that week? Sanada wondered, but couldn't bring himself to care as he went to hunt down for garbage bags before they had a vermin problem.
Sanada collapsed onto the elegant sofa half an hour later; shoulder muscles aching from the physical exertion of lifting and carrying rubbish from the apartment to the rubbish dump 5 floors down. Sighing deeply, he pondered on meaningless distractions. Anything to get his mind off the man that slept silently in the recliner.
A timid voice broke into his thoughts and he felt himself jolt. "Genichirou?" He smiled at the soft half-asleep tone that Atobe had used. "You're finally home?" Atobe couldn't keep the slight feeling of hope well up inside of him; his senses all fired up from the familiar smell of Sanada's trench coat to the slight fuzzy outline of the physical being.
The sun slowly crept over the horizon, casting hues of red and orange throughout the land. Atobe squinted as the bright light filled the room, quickly averting to stare at his hands. The bare end table top bore no sign of having had empty liquor bottles set upon them, and he slowly realised that he just might have passed out and the alcohol could have began to party in his head.
He decided his head hurt.
Rubbing the heel of his palm above his temple, Atobe didn't notice as Sanada stood up and sat upon the ottoman at his feet. The dull throb subsided enough for Atobe to peer at his lover from behind cold fingers. "Why are you here?"
Sanada was taken aback at the question, his mind running through a million different scenarios but that one. Why? "Keigo…" He frowned as he tried to find the right words to say, knowing that waxing eloquent was only easy when the other was half deluded by love and whatever sap he concocted would sound remotely romantic. That was what he believed anyway. Wh-what can I say?
A rational and logical part of his mind piped up: You could apologise.
But apologise for what? I haven't done anything wrong. Sanada hastily ran a hand through his hair, knowing that he was trying to put all the blame on the elite businessman. Apologise. It was a rather good idea actually. It would save a lot of heartache and explaining…He reflected sourly, understanding all too well that his rational and logical part of his mind that he used so often was once again right.
"Keigo… I'm… I'm sorry," There was silence that greeted that statement, and Sanada could only accept that quiet as a signal to go on, "It's just that… well, there really isn't any excuse for what I have done…" Sanada paused again, unsure of what to say. It was those kind of statements were always so ambiguous and could only be justified with a reason.
"With the hospital being understaffed and my brother having his wedding and the interns getting ready for their exams… I've-." He stopped. No words in his vocabulary at that moment could save the stark reality of what he had really done for so long.
"I've neglected you and I'm sorry. Would you ever consider forgiving me?"
Atobe held his breath, unable to digest the apology in full; the stiff way Sanada held himself showing the tension and anxiety that Atobe knew both of them felt. How Sanada coped with the stress of everyday life, Atobe didn't know. But what really did Atobe expect of the famous doctor? The hospital's ungodly shifts usually didn't allow the luxury of relationships, let alone cater to the desires of one as emotionally needy as he was.
"I haven't been totally fair on you either Genichirou… it really isn't your fault." Atobe brushed away Sanada's bangs, wanting to stare into his lovers eyes that were hidden behind the veil of hair. "I should have been more understanding… I know that you're busy and you really don't have the time to spend with me. I really should be less selfish… after all you are the one saving lives and…"
It was going better than he thought. Instead of the shattering of his relationship with the doctor as he initially anticipated, Atobe found that ironically it was healing. Trust Sanada to live up to his profession inside and outside of the hospital. There wasn't any hostile shield of emotion and all the cards were spread out on the table. Forgive and forget, right?
"I love you, you know that?"
"Of course. Ore-sama knows all." Sanada smirked, half successful in hiding the tender smile. He reached out for Atobe's hand and held it in his hands, amazed at the smoothness that compared drastically from his own work roughened hands.
"You smell terrible, o great ore-sama."
Atobe raised an eyebrow, clearly unamused by the insult. "You don't have the right nose then," he huffed. Wrinkling his nose, he couldn't help repeating the same insult to his 'lazy lover'.
Standing up, Sanada smirked as a great idea came to him; an idea that he was certain both of them could and would most certainly enjoy. He pulled the blue (azure, Atobe had insisted) knitted jumper over his head and threw it onto the white sofa. Atobe crossed his arms, looking unperturbed as Sanada revealed more and more of his skin.
"Up," Sanada commanded him to stand and gently pulled Atobe to stand. The black silk shirt was tugged over Atobe's head smoothly and neither paid any heed to the trench coat that lay crumpled on the floor.
The trail to the bathroom was marked by the odd garment or two and both were certain that the maids would know exactly what had happened. Maids were scary knowledgeable things; they had both found out.
Seating himself on the edge of the marble counter top, Atobe watched as Sanada leant over the luxurious bath tub to adjust the water. He enjoyed the slight rippling of muscle that happened whenever Sanada made any small movement. How the man found time to keep his body so fit, Atobe hadn't a clue.
Pulling open the cabinet, Atobe pulled out his special lavender scent and a large plastic purple bottle of bubble bath; both items held in offering to Sanada, who rolled his eyes exasperatedly at the typical way Atobe made him do everything.
Sanada left both bottles to one side of the bath floor and sat on the edge of the large tub, waiting for the water to fill it up. The bubbles slowly formed and he found himself slightly taken by the miraculous creation of the spherical translucent shape. Atobe smoothly slid off the tabletop, unimpressed at the attention – or lack thereof – that Sanada was showing him.
So he stood in front of the doctor, twining his fingers into the fine strands of black hair. He was about to curl his hand into a fist but heard the doctor purr. Purr! Sanada revelled in the feeling and gently nuzzled Atobe's stomach.
"I've missed you so much, Keigo." Sanada whispered against the smooth expanse of skin. He made sure that every syllable innocently brushed against the sensitive belly button, knowing the man would squirm. Cradling the doctor against his stomach, Atobe smiled, willing the ticklish feeling to go away. "I should have been there for you."
He leant over his lover, dipping his hand into the water which felt warm against Atobe's hand. The golden taps were then turned off by delicate thin fingers. Pulling away from Atobe's embrace, Sanada climbed into the bathtub and settled against the cold ceramic (marble, Atobe informed him later) walls of the container. Atobe followed; indulging in Sanada's chivalry and leant against the far warmer chest of his lover.
Minutes ticked by and neither of them said a word, both savouring the comfortable silence that hadn't been for a long time. Atobe began to play with Sanada's hands. The same pair of godly hands that saved people everyday and he told Sanada so. His lover nuzzled the back of Atobe's neck and then whispered against his ear that he had killed many too.
"But your intent was for them to live."
Sanada sighed; his face darkened slightly trying to weigh the innocent blood that had been spilt to the innocent people that lived. Atobe turned at the waist and took Sanada's face into his hands. "You saved my life before." Sanada snapped out of his reverie and gazed into Atobe's eyes. He recognised both the love and amusement that was apparent yet still he knew that behind those emotions there was a streak of loneliness. "At least you're here now. That's all that counts."
The bubbles floated around them slowly and he discovered a new type of apathy; the kind that Atobe found himself enjoying immensely. It was the lethargy that settled in when embraced by one's lover which felt far more comforting than the white silken sheets that had shrouded him in his sleepless dream.
