TIME AFTER TIME (AKA SLEEPLESS I)

TITLE/S: Time After Time (aka Sleepless I)
PAIRING/S: Possible Mokuba/Seto, possible Seto/OC
RATING/S: M, for language, and hints of incest.
WARNING/S: Angst; Insomniac!Mokuba; Implied M/M and incest.
NOTE/S:
1. Well, it’s been ages since I posted the chaptered fic with the subtitle “Sleepless II.” Lots of you asked about “Sleepless I,” and I told you that it wasn’t that great but I’d post it eventually. THIS IS NOT A PREQUEL. Nor is it related in any way to “Sleepless II,” except by subtitle and the portrayal of some of the same characters. I hope you enjoy – please review!
2. This fic parallels the song ‘Time After Time,” which I’m sure most of you have heard in at least one of its guises. While not entirely a song-based fic, some images and motifs are drawn from the lyrics.
3. Also, in case you’re unfamiliar with my devices –this- means italics. Mokuba thinks in italics a –lot-.
DISCLAIMER/S: I don’t own YuGiOh, either of the Kaibas, or the song “Time After Time.” I’m not making any money from this fic, and I do not mean any offence to anyone by posting it here.


TIME AFTER TIME (aka SLEEPLESS I)

My feet keep me awake, keep sliding along the side of the mattress, trying to find a cooler crease of sheet. I’ve grown. If they wiggle a bit further down, a bit further towards the edge, they will end up at the bottom corner, the corner where the fan blows. The corner folded meticulously. Starched, even.

Who the fuck starches their sheets anyway? Is this some kind of sick joke they play on me? Give the crazy rich kid another stay-awake night. Too hot, despite the cotton bedlinen. It’s these synthetic pillows. It’s like sleeping in a marshmallow. A giant, hot marshmallow. A giant, hot, -vindictive- marshmallow. With starched fucking sheets. What is it? July? Don’t these idiots have summer break? Who the fuck has time to starch sheets? I hate starched fucking sheets, they just remind me of

Oh, that would be it. Of course. They –do- have breaks, don’t they? Every other fucker here is sleeping soundly in last week’s bedclothes, but that’s not good enough for –me-, is it? Hell, -they- probably won’t even get a nurse if they call emergency. But –me-… Well, I’m special. I’m so fucking special I get starched fucking sheets, and a personal daytime assistant in the next room, and a doctor – no less – ready to be at my rich-ass service if I so much as sneeze, and an alternative therapist every other day, and breakfast in my own (like I wanted it) room: clean, crisp, and starched fucking white. Because it’s only the best for –your-

Stop/watch that thought. What –is- the time, anyway? It’s too dark to see, but if I hold my breath for a while I can hear it ticking. You’d think they’d have an LCD screen, visible at all times. Don’t they know people go mad when they don’t know the time? Don’t –you- know that? You’re the one who taught me to read a watch in the first place. Said I could tell you off if you were late home. Or late to pick me up. Or late to meet me in reception. You never had trouble getting to work on time, did you? And you still don’t. You –must- know that I’m faking when you visit – I mean an insomniac doesn’t conveniently fall asleep every time one particular arsehole is hanging around. I wish. Maybe I’d get the nurse to call you in more often. You’d come, wouldn’t you? And you’d sit here for exactly twenty-two minutes, just like you do every week, looking at the clock, at the Venetian blinds, at the fucking wall, because you don’t want to look at me. Don’t want to see that my eyes are open. Don’t want to see that I’m seeing you.

And I am, just like always. Watching you. When we were kids, and you’d fight, I was watching. When that arsehole beat you, I was watching. When you took over the company, I was watching. When you used to stand in my doorway after midnight, when you should have been asleep, when you looked like utter shit from working on your fucking VR, I was watching. Always watching you fuck up. Watching you get everything perfect.

And everything –is- perfect for you, isn’t it? You rely on nobody, you owe no favours, you close your deals, you have no… -friends- to fuck you around. You have an entire corporation around your finger, you have billions, you do what you want – when you want to. Well, I fuck that up a bit, don’t I? Lucky I’m wrapped up in white, glued to this rich-bitch bed. Can’t do too much harm here. You can schedule your visits, bring a Power Point presentation with dot-points (Stare at clock, blinds, wall. Note condition of room – dust? Grime? Are sheets starched? Remember: remain calm, sit straight, keep hands still. Above all, don’t look). At least in here, I’m not throwing something as basic as a spanner into the delicate technology of your virtual world.

Maybe you wouldn’t come. If I asked. Perhaps I’m fooling myself. After all, you’re a busy man. Time’s too short to care. Too short. Well, it’s the same for me, wanker. Do you think I don’t sleep because I’m sick? Stupid? No, I just don’t have time. It’s curfew at ten (not that I’m allowed to associate with the riff-raff. Wonder who organized that?), lights out at eleven, another hour until you stop tapping away on your laptop (that’s right, I have very astute hearing, didn’t you know?), half an hour while you shower and organise tomorrow’s paperwork, another half an hour waiting for you to go to bed, fret at your covers, get up, get a drink of water from the bathroom down the hall (there’s a tap in your ensuite, baka), push my door open slightly… you –must- know I’m faking it. Can’t you see a sliver of iris under my lids? Doesn’t the light behind you illuminate even a patch of my face? I can see you, alright, your tall frame silhouetted against the corridor, your shoulders softer somehow in your pyjamas. And even though your face is dark, I can see you. See those eyes murmuring me a brilliant blue lullaby. And it’s almost enough. Almost enough to be wrapped in your gaze, in your faraway, your warm

And then you leave. Just turn on your heel and disappear. Do you know how that feels – to have your… to have you taken away? My face feels empty, and numb, and my throat like concrete. I could scream – I –want- to scream. Howl from the pit of my stomach, from the hole in my chest. Hours and hours of waiting and wanting and aching

You know, you always made me lug your briefcase around? It was almost as tall as me back then. Maybe it was some misguided attempt to toughen me up. I mean, you weren’t always going to be there to look after me, were you? I guess you figured I’d remain a midget my whole life, and I needed some training to take on the world. You know, for a super-genius sometimes you’re pretty stupid. Doesn’t basic genetics tell you that I’d grow just a –bit- when I hit puberty? I mean look at you. You’re taller than pretty much anyone I know. Knew. Where was I? Yeah, so I grew. Not that tall, but, you know, so what? It meant we weren’t eye-to-crotch anymore. I don’t know, maybe that pissed you off. Ha. Or maybe you just didn’t like that you couldn’t talk over my head. Either way, you lost interest in protecting me.

Or not. I’m not –that- stupid. You think I didn’t notice the connection between my growth, those –looks- you gave me, and the way you were suddenly working a –lot- of overtime? I heard the doorman say you’d got a girlfriend. Well, he actually said he thought a prostitute had found a rich, permanent client. I fired him, of course. You always taught me to get rid of gossips. But it was unusual for –me- to do the firing. I’d always been your nice off-sider – the one your employees could petition for a weekend off. But it made me so fucking –furious-, to hear that –bullshit- come out of someone’s mouth. –I- knew why you were away so much. I –knew-, arsehole, and I knew that wasn’t the reason, no matter how many hentai thoughts you had (who programs their VR to make themselves sexual victims of predatory dragons?), and I wasn’t going to stand around and let him talk –shit- about you getting it on with some whore. You think you protected me, huh? Well I had some of my own protecting to do.

I mean, you keep me here now, and I wonder if you realize how fucking much I did for you. How many nights I found you slumped over your desk, your computer, your paperwork, and guided you – half-asleep – to your room. Did you really wake up in the morning and think that –you- had taken yourself to bed, that –you- had put your pyjamas on, that you had tucked yourself in, dimmed the lights to your favoured setting, put a glass of water on your bedside table, set your alarm for half past six, closed the door, tidied your desk, shut down your computer, collated your papers

That’s right arsehole, you just go to sleep and dream your little dreams of me. It’ll all be the same in the morning. Yeah, I know about your dreams, too. Didn’t know you talk in your sleep? Well, -I- never told you, so who would? Does anyone really want to know that they give up their secrets to the prowling night? What a –weakness-. A weakness. Don’t want to know how my name sounded on your sleeping mouth? Well, fuck that. I’ll tell you. It was clear. Just like your waking speech, well enunciated. Nobody could misunderstand you. Unlike your usual self, though, I could almost hear you pleading, calling, crying… Slow. Slow. That’s all you’d say. Slow.

Slow what? What? What am I meant to slow? You don’t make sense. Come on, just spit it out. You want me to slow down? It’s not like I’m moving – just sitting on the side of your bed, tearing up. Should I touch you? Gather you against me, tell you it’s all going to be ok? Do I want to? … yes. I do, but –should- I? Never. Slow. Maybe you think -I’m- slow. You know that’s bullshit. I –know- you know. If anything, I’m pretty quick on the uptake – I see what’s going on behind your stupidly (silkily) long fringe and your stupidly (pointlessly) locked doors and your stupidly (pathetically) blue eyes. -I’m- not slow, wanker, and I never have been.

What the fuck are you saying, then? Slow… You breathe. Call my name. Slow… Breathe. My name. Slow… And as I sit there, watching you almost-sleep, your chest and your REM send me into an almost-trance. I’m floating through a surreal landscape, along a twilight beach towards a dripping clock, and the hands move with your eyelashes, and the waves pulse to your blood, and the sand is the soft of your skin and the clock face is faintly spinning and I look back. See you running towards me down the ever-lengthening beach and you’re getting further and further away and you’re soundlessly shouting something and the picture is fading and the clock is getting closer and closer and I

Wake up. Which means I’ve been asleep. Which means I’ve been asleep. Asleep. My heart is thumping in my ears, juddering my chest.

And it’s tomorrow. Really tomorrow. Grey light is floating around the room, and I can see the clock. Six thirty. Another night gone. Your alarm must have woken me up. Nobody stirs here until seven. I told you I had exceptional hearing. So, my last half-hour of myself. I’m almost disappointed. I don’t really like daytime. Everyone zips around, all perky and happy to be crisp and clean like stalks of fresh celery. At least at night I can go at my own pace. I almost feel cheated out of my last few hours. I might even prefer to watch the morning sneak in, and come to terms with it. I think that’s better than waking up with this painful chest and finding

Here he comes. I can hear the nurse-shoe slap-slap down the corridor. Even before he gets to the security door, which I –know- is meant to be soundproof, because I heard you talking about it months ago. The last half-hour is always over so quickly. And here he is.

hello
hello.
did you sleep well?
no (do I ever even sleep, you wanker?).
it looks like it’s going to be a lovely day.
yes.
would you like a paper with your breakfast?
no thank you.
your assistant will be in shortly.
thank you.

Only today he hesitates at the door, as if there’s something he wants to – or doesn’t want to – or doesn’t know if he should – say. His forehead is doing miniscule exercises, and he glances at the blinds, then back to me.

yes?
well. well, happy birthday, sir.
(-birthday-? it’s my –birthday-?) thank you.
thank you.

He bobs out, and closes the door. Which means I’ve been in here for. Six weeks. Or over a year. Fuck. I don’t know, I can’t remember. That’s a –fuckload- of time to be unsure of. Isn’t it? I’m pretty certain it is. Fuck. Maybe I –am- insane. Or maybe they’re just winding me up. Are they? I don’t believe it. No, I’m not paranoid, I’m –not-. I –know- that. Am I? I’m panicking,, I can’t help it. Paranoid? No. The sheets, they’re starched, but only because you make them do it. And the mirror beside the door. I know that it’s a one-way window. I’m not stupid, you know, I can –hear- people watching me, taking notes. Hell, I even do a few crazy things, just to keep them happy. Just to keep them interested. To keep –you- interested. But I’m not paranoid, and I’m –not- insane.

Although, if the police picked me up off the streets I could tell them my name, little else. And what with my other responses, I doubt they’d believe me. Where do you live; in the past. How old are you; I don’t know – older than I was yesterday. What is your occupation; you tell me. No, please, I’m serious, tell me. Tell me what I should be doing. What they –expect- me to do. I’m sure I can manage. Just give me a rule-book. It can’t be that fucking hard – millions of people manage to do it every day. Look, the celery-stalk nurses and assistants and doctors and alternative therapists manage. The people who make breakfast manage, the doormen manage, the people who write the newspaper articles manage. So where do they keep the fucking instructions?

-You- manage.

You’ve managed me into here. You’ve managed to get me away from you. Keep me safe. Protect me. And you’ve given me almost direct instructions to forget it all… forget that you ever looked out for me. Forget that you ever hunted down someone who bullied me. Forget that you’ve built an empire for me. Forget that you ever held me, ever looked at me, ever cared about me. Forget that you were ever late for work because you were helping me with homework. Forget that you ever sang me silent lullabies. Forget that you put everything you could between me and anything that might hurt me, even if that included you. Forget just –why- I was so angry to think of you seeing someone. Else. Forget that you woke up sometimes as I put you to bed, and smiled. Forget how that made my breath hitch, to feel you just inches away. Forget the sound of my name in your sleep. Forget the burning blue in your eyes when you visit me. Forget that you’re –always- on time, and that eight minutes is the absolute minimum to get from my bed to your boardroom. Forget that I hear you, every time you leave – you stop at the one-way window and stare and stare, and I can hear you breathing. I can hear you –breathing-, baka, you think I can’t hear you whisper ai shiteru? You think that I forget that you’re as good at faking as I am?

Six weeks. A year and six weeks. Perhaps… Perhaps two years. Three? Has it taken me so long to do what you want? Or so little time? And how many weeks, or months, or years will it take you to realise that –you- aren’t the problem, that –you- would never – could never hurt me? To realise that the current running from your alarm to my brain, from your smile to my lungs, from your breath to my heart – to realise it’s –me-… -I’m- the one who wants it, -I’m- the one whose jealousy is eating at us both, -I’m- the one waiting… Watching… Wanting…

-Aching-

And suddenly my breath has a will of it’s own, and the sheets (those -fucking starched sheets-, all stiff and white and not clean at –all-), the sheets are whispering baka, baka, baka, and the clock says seventeen minutes past seven, and my breakfast should have been here two minutes ago, and the tick is expanding in my head, and it sounds as a counterpoint to the slap-slap nurse-shoes and the clip-clop assistant shoes, and the little alarm beeping frantically in my ear from across the room, and I think I’m –crying-, for fuck’s sake, of all things, I’m crying, crying for

And I hear the security door slide back, and my ear drums are telling me everyone’s secret, and I hear you breathing, I hear you –breathing-, I’m howling in the pit of my belly, and they wonder if this is another fucking stunt and

You push the door open in half a second, less than that, and before you even reach it you’re next to me, and you –know- I know, and you don’t need to say a word, only bring me your arms and your eyes and you can see me, wanting, calling – and I don’t –need- to talk in my sleep to tell you, to –show- you, that I

…but your eyes don’t want to unclench (wake –up-), and your hands don’t want to hold on (let –go-), and you don’t want to see that we’re not even falling anymore, that we’ve arrived, that you don’t –have- to protect me from your secrets – I stole them long ago.

The nurse pulls the door closed, and I hear slap-slap, clip-clop, receding. But it’s faint, soft, gone, and all I need – all I want – is your heart thumping in my ear, your fingers running down my back, removing the starch-stiffness in my muscles, and your mouth, your throat, your lips, your whisper in my hair

you’re here.
ai shiteru.
ai shiteru.
happy birthday.

The sheets are untucked.

It’s seven thirty four.

I must be eighteen.

*