AN: I am utterly disgusted with myself. Seriously, I cannot believe it took me this long to put out this little chapter. When I began this story, it was a two or three chapter story at most. That was it. I was going to have it done in a few week's time and be finished with it. I suppose the characters had a different plan for my plotline because now it's much longer than I'd ever anticipated. Truly, it's taken on a life of its own.

That means more waiting on your part and I am so sorry for that. Hopefully by the end of this project we'll all feel that it was worth the wait.

Ebony

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Chapter Five:

Within ten minutes of Syaoran's phone call to Meiling, Sakura stepped out of the bathroom. Her exit into the hallway was heralded by a billow of steam that issued from the bathroom door and she exited wrapped in a fluffy white towel, her wet hair wrapped up turban-style in a smaller towel of the same carefully-maintained white color. While her body resisted her rush as she flew into the bedroom and then into her closet, her mind was dead set against anything that would keep her from making it to the hospital on time. Sakura yanked random clothes on, ending up with a somewhat mismatched pant and shirt combination that would be easy to hide under her white lab coat, and then ran back into the bathroom. She found her watch on the bathroom counter and quickly fastened it around her wrist, her stomach dropping when she saw the time.

"Crap," she muttered, pulling a brush hastily through her tangled hair. Order was promptly forsaken, and she resorted to pulling her damp locks into bun that kept the hair off of her neck and the water off of her clothes. Sakura grabbed the pile of wet clothes that was on the floor next to the shower and dumped it in the sink along with the towels she had used, then rushed to the bedroom again. Her purse was sitting on the bed, her pager next to it. She grabbed these and a pair of socks and then dashed into the hallway and down the stairs. Her wet shoes were still next to the door, and they were sitting in a puddle of water.

"Can't wear those," she said to herself as she headed for the shoe closet. She opened the closet door and instantly spotted a pair of warm but waterproof boots. Sakura grabbed them off the shoe rack and sat down on the second to last step of the staircase to put on her socks. As she was pulling on her first boot, a thought suddenly occurred to her. She stuck her foot into the second boot and stood up, grabbing her purse.

"Syaoran?" She waited, but there was no answer. A glance towards the key-holder mounted on the wall beside the front door told her that Syaoran's car was gone...and Syaoran with it. Sakura grimaced. Shoot, she thought. He's mad.

But there was no time to stop and ponder her husband now. Sakura collected her purse and keys, checked to make sure that her cell phone was in her pants pocket, and then went to the front door and yanked it open. What greeted her was nothing short of a prodigious sheet of water falling perfectly vertically from the sky to the ground.

"Ah…" Sakura stepped back into the house and grabbed an umbrella from the stand in the foyer. "I'm not forgetting anything this time!" she said triumphantly. With her purse securely under her arm and her umbrella clutched tightly in her hand, Sakura stepped from the house and out into the pouring rain.

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It was slow going for Syaoran, despite the lack of traffic in the direction in which he was headed. The rain pounded against his windshield like an army of fists, almost completely obscuring his view of the road. Had it not been for the new-and-improved windshield wipers Syaoran had had his mechanic install, driving in this rain would have been impossible. Still, he was extra-attentive to the road and the few drivers around him. To hydroplane now not only could but would result in a damaging, punishing injury...and that was something Syaoran was determined to avoid at all costs. So despite his black mood, he kept his focus completely on his driving, not allowing his thoughts to wander to what and who he had left behind at home.

"Where to go, where to go…" he murmured as he drove. There were many cars traveling in the direction opposite the one in which Syaoran was headed--all working people leaving the city for their homes. To go to waiting families. Something tugged cruelly on Syaoran's heartstrings and he winced. Whether he meant them to or not, his thoughts always went back to his wife. While it's said that men think about sex at least once every two minutes, it was always Sakura to whom his thoughts returned. Dinner with Sakura, and maybe a quiet evening with her, was all he really asked for--though, of course, sex every now and again would be nice. And he'd been so close today...so very close to making that connection with her that had seemed lost for such a long while.

Syaoran scowled at the direction that his thoughts were taking. Of course, it wasn't just sex with Sakura--not ever. There was a definite, palpable connection of the soul there every time they were together whether it was physical or not. But, all the same, no one did it like Sakura. Never could there be another with whom love that was so electric, so charged, so mind-blowingly passionate. Syaoran shifted in his seat and tried to force his mind down another avenue of thought as the blood began to pulse fast and hot in his groin. Putting the words "Sakura" and "sex" in the same sentence was not the best thing for him to do when he was supposed to be concentrating on his driving, and it wouldn't help him quell his anger or his hurt. Instead, Syaoran thought about the enormously obese secretary at his office (her name was Kanako, if he remembered correctly). Now, sex with her would be an absolute nightmare. Syaoran shuddered at the thought and felt the blood recede quickly from his crotch and return back to where it was supposed to be: in his brain. Nothing like thoughts of sleeping with a woman three times your size to get you back on track, he mused, sickened. A scowl crossed his face. That was one mental image that would not be leaving any time soon.

A sign indicating that the next exit was in three quarters of a mile reminded Syaoran that he had yet to choose a destination for the evening. He racked his brain for a place to go, and then settled on one of the downtown bars that he and Eriol frequented on their Guys' Nights Out. It was nothing special; small, somewhat dingy, but it was a fun place to hang out and the bartender served a knockout of a dirty martini. Plus, they had a mechanical bull, and the merciless beatings it dealt to the drunks provided entertainment enough to last an entire evening. Really, for Syaoran it didn't get much better than that.

Syaoran released one hand from steering wheel duty so that he could hunt in his jacket pocket for his cell phone. He found it easily and withdrew it, his thumb seeking the "3" key that would speed-dial Eriol's cell phone number. It started ringing and Syaoran put the phone to his ear. After four rings, he heard a scuffle, an indignant "Of course not!", and then finally Tomoyo's voice.

"H'lo. You've reached Eriol's cell phone. You might be wondering why I--Tomoyo--am on Eriol's voicemail. That would be because Eriol is a lazy-ass who doesn't want to do it on his own." Chagrined squawks were heard in the background from Eriol, but Tomoyo continued blithely on. "Eriol can't come to the phone right now, but please leave a message after the tone. When he stops being a bum, he'll call you back. Thanks, and have a great day."

Eriol's ridiculous voicemail greeting amused Syaoran, but not quite to the point of a smile. Syaoran waited until the beep and then left his message.

"Eriol, it's Syaoran. I'm heading over to Yoshimi's for a few drinks and I was wondering if you wanted to join me. Just give me a call when you get this message. Thanks. Later." He tried Eriol and Tomoyo's home phone with the same result. He hung up with a frown and stuck the phone into the car's cup holder. It seemed that he would be alone that evening. Not that it's anything new, he thought to himself glumly. With a sigh, he flicked on his indicators and began to cross lanes toward the exit that would take him to Downtown.

Just then, his cell phone began to ring, vibrating mightily in the cup holder. Hoping it was Eriol, Syaoran reached out and grabbed the phone, putting it to his ear before the second ring was complete.

"Hello?" He was expectant, believing that it could be none other than Eriol calling him, and so he was taken aback when he heard a voice different than the one he had assumed he would hear. In fact, this voice caused his hand to slip on the steering wheel, making the car swerve sickeningly and recklessly into the next lane.

"Hi, Syaoran." It was Sakura, her voice soft and apologetic. Syaoran held the phone between his ear and his shoulder and put both hands on the wheel, not trusting himself enough to drive safely with only one hand. He pulled back into his own lane, flashing a repentant glance to the angry driver who he had accidentally cut off in his surprise.

"Oh. Hi, Sakura." Syaoran fought to keep his voice under control--to keep the anger and resentment out of it. He breathed evenly, carefully. "Are you at the hospital yet? What's the situation like?" Syaoran asked the questions in a practiced way, as he did every time Sakura had to run to the hospital for an emergency. It was a tradition--one that helped Sakura get pressures of handling other peoples' lives off of her chest. And usually, Syaoran was glad to help and relieve her of at least that much. But it was hard to retain the sincerity with which he usually asked these questions when the lifeblood of his marriage was being drained by them.

"No...no, I'm not at the hospital yet. I'm still on the road." Syaoran looked at his watch. Sakura was already 10 minutes later than she'd said she would be.

"Well you'd better hurry up, Sakura. I'm sure they're missing you at the hospital." Too late Syaoran realized the venom he'd injected into his comment. Oops, he thought. Better fix that. "That is to say…"

"Syaoran…" Sakura cut him off, and Syaoran felt his anger flare again. He worked to keep composed, but it was harder than usual. Gritting his teeth, he waited for her to speak. "Syaoran...are you...are you really angry with me?" She sounded tentative, like she didn't quite know what to expect from his answer.

He would have been lying outright if he had even tried to convince her that he wasn't

angry.

"Yes," he said. "I am." With great determination, Syaoran kept his tone flat and emotionless. He heard Sakura's sharp intake of breath, and she paused before she spoke.

"I'm...sorry, Syaoran," she whispered, and there was pain evident in her voice. Syaoran tilted his head back against the headrest, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"No," Syaoran disagreed. "I'm sorry." His mouth twisted in a grimace; this was starting to sound more like a soap opera than he liked to admit. "I'm sorry…that I'm not enough to hold you. Sorry that...that I'm not that guy who's willing to be put second to everything else. I'm--" He broke off then, clenching his jaw to keep the words he so badly wanted to say from coming out, and then sighed. "Listen," he said, "I just need some...time to think. I'll call you later."

"Syaoran, I…" But he interrupted her.

"Sakura...I have to go. I'm liable to say something I don't mean if I keep talking to you right now. Just...drive safely. The roads are slick."

"Syaoran…" Sakura's voice came to his ear, a barely audible whisper.

"I'll call you," Syaoran insisted, and he snapped the phone shut to end the call, before tossing it carefully onto the passenger seat. By now, he was approaching the city center and was glad for the distracting task of trying to navigate his way to the bar.

Lord knows I need a drink now, he thought to himself. He could feel the depression that usually accompanied a lonely evening descending upon him, compounded by his less-than-pleasant conversation with his wife. Syaoran took the necessary turns, pausing less than was conventional at stop signs, and quickly arrived at Yoshimi's. The flashing lights and dark windows of the bar were strangely welcoming and Syaoran pulled into an empty parking space, putting his car in park and pulling the keys out of the ignition. He patted his jeans, checking for all the essentials and then stepped out of the car, locking the doors behind him.

Even from the parking lot, Syaoran could see that the bar was packed--something that was typical of any Friday night at Yoshimi's. He pushed through the crowd of twenty-somethings who stood smoking outside the bar, flashed his ID at the security guard standing next to the door, and was inside. His eyes scanned the dimmed room and he could identify no faces that he knew besides that of the bartender. The lights above the dance floor pulsed on and off to the beat of the unidentifiable techno song that was being played, and the small wood-paneled square was packed with writhing, gyrating couples, many of whom still sipped from their drinks as they danced.

Carefully and not without difficulty, Syaoran picked his way through the crowd and finally made it to long strip-like bar that ran down the right side of the room. He hunted for an empty seat and sat down gratefully, pulling off is wet coat and draping it over the seat next to him. The three seats on either side of him were empty.

After a few moments of waiting Syaoran saw the bartender approach, a small white towel draped over his right shoulder and a full martini glass in his hand. He set the glass down on the counter in front of Syaoran. A small amount of the cloudy fluid sloshed over the lip of the glass, rolling bead-like down the slope of the flute and along the stem until it formed a wet ring around the base of the glass. Syaoran grinned gratefully at the lanky, pale-haired man before him.

"Yukito," Syaoran said in greeting, inclining his head slightly. The man named Yukito grinned righ back at Syaoran, eyes twinkling.

"What on earth has brought you back into my lair, Syaoran?" he asked jovially. Syaoran picked up the martini glass and took an appreciative sip.

"Wife," he said simply. Understanding made itself apparent on Yukito's visage and he nodded.

"I see." Yukito folded his pale, slender hands together, bracing his elbows on the bar countertop and leaning forward toward his visibly troubled customer. Syaoran studied Yukito's hands as he sipped his drink. They were graceful, slightly effeminate hands that would have been better suited to playing a piano or a violin than they were to pouring drinks. In the same way, the slender, bespectacled young man to whom the hands belonged seemed constantly out of place--as though a laboratory geek had accidentally switched places with the rough and tough sort of person one usually expected behind a bar.

"What happened?" Yukito inquired curiously. Why his domestic spats were of such interest to Yukito, Syaoran would never understand. He seemed to derive some sort of vicarious pleasure from listening to Syaoran recount the trials and tribulations of married life. Of course, Syaoran was never one to deny the gangly barkeep his pleasures, and indulging Yukito in his odd fascination also helped Syaoran get things off his chest. It was a mutually beneficial outfit they had put together and so Syaoran had no objections to providing Yukito with details.

"What else but the usual?" Syaoran responded with a shrug. "She's a cardiologist. She's busy. She chooses work over me without fail every single time." He drank deeply from his glass, closing his eyes as the alcohol burned slightly on its way down his throat. "Pisses you off after a while. Is it wrong that I wish she'd take some interest in the poor unfortunate spouse every once in a while?" A short snort of a laugh escaped Yukito and Syaoran cast him a reproving look.

"Sorry," Yukito said apologetically. "It's just that the way you said it was funny." When Syaoran didn't continue and didn't lift the frown from his face, Yukito went further to make amends. "Go on, go on. I promise. No more laughing. Seriously." He made a valiant attempt at a poker face.

"Right," Syaoran growled. "Well, that's about it. Gets you down. And what with all the rain…" He gestured vaguely above his head, flicking his hand about in a way that he meant to indicate clouds. "Didn't feel like spending the evening by myself, so I figured I'd come here and grace you with my presence. Nice, huh?"

Syaoran had, by this time, finished his martini. Yukito placed another in front of him and took away the empty glass. With a murmured thanks, Syaoran started on the fresh drink and, observing his unusual conduct, Yukito frowned.

"It looks to me like you're drinking to get drunk here," he suggested softly. "Not something I've seen you, of all people, do before." Syaoran met his steady gaze. Yukito did not miss the angry edge in Syaoran's, and so he was mildly surprised that the anger did not permeate the words Syaoran spoke next.

"In most cases, Yukito, I appreciate your advice...your intervention, even." His voice was friendly, but his eyes were still dangerous and his fingers gripped the stem of the martini glass with more force than was really necessary. "But tonight, why don't you just play barkeep instead of trying to be my shrink?" Yukito nodded slightly, carefully, his lips pressed tightly together into a thin line that curved downwards at the corners.

"Well, call if you want something." Yukito gestured behind him at the rows of bottles stacked on the shelves behind the bar. "In the meantime, though," he started, and hesitated as though he regretted letting those words slip, "Well, as long as you're here you might as well save the doom and gloom for later. Why mope today about what you can mope about tomorrow, right?" His attempt at a joke earned him only a malevolent glare from Syaoran, and he shrugged his shoulders and walked off down the bar.

Syaoran swiveled the barstool to face the dance floor. The blinking lights played staccato patterns across the darkened room, the thumping bass pounding in Syaoran's chest like a second heartbeat. He let his eyes rake across the dim expanse before him, gliding over the twisting, glittering bodies as he again surveyed the crowd for a familiar face. Syaoran itched to reach for his cell phone again, and his hand jerked towards it as he considered calling Eriol again to see if he would pick up this time.

Patience, Syaoran reminded himself, folding his arms over his chest. He took a deep drink from the glass clutched in his right hand, closing his eyes as the potent fluid slid down his throat and settled, warm and viscous, somewhere below his ribs. Again he turned his gaze to the dancers, taking in the sounds and scents. His vision felt slightly distorted--blurred around the edges and shifting too much despite his stationary position. Syaoran squinted, trying to focus his eyes properly. The effort was rewarded by a sharpening in the pictures that came to his eyes. With a triumphant smile on his lips, Syaoran got up from his barstool and began to walk into the sea of people, disappearing behind the waves of exposed, flailing flesh.