Dziļākās Noslēpums
WHO: Krievu un Latviešu
WHEN: Jūnijs sestais
WHERE: Birojs
WHAT: Aizdomas, Atklājums, Aizliegts piesaiste
RATING: ---
The sound of the city never kept itself outside once theoretically sound proof walls.
Even now, he could hear the marching of thousands of feet slamming the pavement, oddly in tandem with the fury of his typing, clacking keys lending an air of productivity to an otherwise static environment. The clocked ticked its way through seconds quiet but insistent, the coffee maker in their pathetically small 'kitchenette' rumbled awake at its appointed moment and from behind the innocuous oak door, the muffled concert of voices.
Tuesdays at the office. Typical and almost refreshingly uneventful. There would always be time enough between appointments for Raivis to split open a novel after tidying up the digital database or for a quick, light stretch and a stroll around the second floor. Exhausted by Monday's avalanche of patients, the Doctor would rarely ever have the energy to terrorize him come five o' clock or do much else other than shove the keys over for lockup then vanish until eight the next day and Raivis would be delighted to climb into his bed later, free of the worry of nightmares. Would have. Should have been. Was not the routine anymore. Breaching the surface of complicated emotions had never resulted in placidity for his life, it likely never would, but certain admissions to a certain frigid giant henceforth reciprocated had altered reality in the most surreal of ways.
Their professionalism in the workplace was still in tact- he'd die before that trait suffered ill repute- but their relationship, the thing that existed between 'Ivan Braginski' and 'Raivis Galante' had twisted into a gnarled, writhing creature in his gut. And, admittedly worse still, his heart. That strong, beating thing which belonged to Peter Kirkland and Toris Loriantis, had developed something curious. Something odd. An element and behaviorism that had, perhaps, already existed possibly amplified by that sunny morning in a quiet Liberty park.
Palpitations. A stirring of his pulse, a loitering gaze then the onset of confusion and back to the slow retina burning of the computer screen.
He no longer read between clients, but idled on the database instead. In the mornings, a rapid, rushed good morning when he greeted Ivan, and during the day, a constant anxiousness in waiting for a heavy palm to lay on his shoulder and threats to wind about his ears.
There were implications in all of that more frightening than the fact that his abject terror of the office, its surveyor, had gone.
So Raivis adhered for 'business as usual' and listened to the city below while he waited for Ivan's door to open. Another poor soul 'healed' and in twenty-minutes, another to take their place.
WHEN: Jūnijs sestais
WHERE: Birojs
WHAT: Aizdomas, Atklājums, Aizliegts piesaiste
RATING: ---
The sound of the city never kept itself outside once theoretically sound proof walls.
Even now, he could hear the marching of thousands of feet slamming the pavement, oddly in tandem with the fury of his typing, clacking keys lending an air of productivity to an otherwise static environment. The clocked ticked its way through seconds quiet but insistent, the coffee maker in their pathetically small 'kitchenette' rumbled awake at its appointed moment and from behind the innocuous oak door, the muffled concert of voices.
Tuesdays at the office. Typical and almost refreshingly uneventful. There would always be time enough between appointments for Raivis to split open a novel after tidying up the digital database or for a quick, light stretch and a stroll around the second floor. Exhausted by Monday's avalanche of patients, the Doctor would rarely ever have the energy to terrorize him come five o' clock or do much else other than shove the keys over for lockup then vanish until eight the next day and Raivis would be delighted to climb into his bed later, free of the worry of nightmares. Would have. Should have been. Was not the routine anymore. Breaching the surface of complicated emotions had never resulted in placidity for his life, it likely never would, but certain admissions to a certain frigid giant henceforth reciprocated had altered reality in the most surreal of ways.
Their professionalism in the workplace was still in tact- he'd die before that trait suffered ill repute- but their relationship, the thing that existed between 'Ivan Braginski' and 'Raivis Galante' had twisted into a gnarled, writhing creature in his gut. And, admittedly worse still, his heart. That strong, beating thing which belonged to Peter Kirkland and Toris Loriantis, had developed something curious. Something odd. An element and behaviorism that had, perhaps, already existed possibly amplified by that sunny morning in a quiet Liberty park.
Palpitations. A stirring of his pulse, a loitering gaze then the onset of confusion and back to the slow retina burning of the computer screen.
He no longer read between clients, but idled on the database instead. In the mornings, a rapid, rushed good morning when he greeted Ivan, and during the day, a constant anxiousness in waiting for a heavy palm to lay on his shoulder and threats to wind about his ears.
There were implications in all of that more frightening than the fact that his abject terror of the office, its surveyor, had gone.
So Raivis adhered for 'business as usual' and listened to the city below while he waited for Ivan's door to open. Another poor soul 'healed' and in twenty-minutes, another to take their place.