Gensomaden Saiyuki Fan Fiction ❯ Bruises And Demigods ❯ Bruises and Demigods ( Chapter 1 )

BRUISES AND DEMIGODS

Gojyo knew he had no business there, as a gray trail of smoke rose atop his head. But it was one of those rainy nights and they were all stuck inside the inn. The inn was derelict and had whitewashed walls and was not a least bit charming. None of them ever trusted those backwater towns but they had no choice. They rarely ever do.

And so Gojyo still had a pack of cigarettes-not his favorite brand, but it'll definitely do. He hadn't even bothered to ask the innkeeper if they kept some bottles of beer (or any kind of liquor for that matter) in one of the shoddy cupboards in the kitchen. He doubted the innkeeper even knew what beer would look like. Sighing-- a bit thwarted, a bit tired and generally just sad-he construed that indeed, things could have been worse and that they could have been caught cramped under a jutted rock with nothing but the bare earth for their sleeping pads. He should be really glad that they had found an inn in that godforsaken place.

But somehow, that thought did not give any comfort. In fact, to think of it, he would rather be under that jutted rock than in any other corner of that ramshackle place. It would be undoubtedly uncomfortable, but at least-he thought almost audibly as smoke rings rose and disappeared in the air-at least it would not be this depressing.

He hated this sort of setting. Or rather, he hated the sentiment that goes with this sort of setting. Yes, it hadn't been raining on that day. That contemptible day that until now is stamped on his brain, like those `I love you' marks on tree barks. The analogy is of course debatable if not amusing. And he found himself smiling while sucking the cigarette. It hadn't been raining, but still, the rain had that sort of effect. It made one nervous enough. It made one think too much. He thought, though he was never a genius in anything scientific-he thought that the mind works up these horrible recollections as a groggy reaction to the rain: to its coldness, to its din, its total lack of joviality.

"Fuck." He cursed: the starch-stiff blanket, the crevices that disparagingly wound their way up the walls, the heavy rain outside, the sodden draft from a broken window, the bitter taste of the cigarette, his goddamn silent roommate. Then his eyes trailed from watching the gray smoke to the figure all but shriveling in the next bed.

Sanzo had been staring at the same page for the past 40 minutes, his reading glasses having slipped halfway down his nose. It was nights like these that Sanzo simply was not Sanzo, Gojyo thought in between wisps of smoke. He found himself mulling over the most revered priest-he almost choked at the thought. If they only knew how the bastard handles the Wesson, they wouldn't be revering him at all. But he looked once more, with great difficulty that is because of the newspaper, at the priest whose face was that of jumbled emotions.

It was funny because Sanzo never manifests any emotion. And now there, in that shabby room they shared, he was letting his guards down. He was letting the kappa glimpse a side of him that was supposed to be very well hidden. And Gojyo was inexplicably unnerved. The proper thing to do was to mind his own business and continue staring at the smoke trails, the crevices, the roaches that now and then creep out of the crevices, the rain-for chrissake--, anything but the shriveling Sanzo. But he couldn't break his stare. The priest could have held the Smith and Wesson to his face and he wouldn't have broken his stare still.

It was fascinating, in an offbeat way, how the room's shadows were playing upon the golden tresses, the gleaming skin. It was fascinating how his violet eyes shifted colors underneath his glasses-but was that even possible, for eyes to change colors? He thought the cigarettes might have been drugged.

He stretched. It took a good deal of effort to tell himself to do so-just to break the silence, make the stifled air dynamic again. He managed to stare at something else while doing so. The robes that were given to them by the innkeeper's wife were folded neatly on a chair. He noted that his clothes were still damp and were apparently quite uncomfortable.

He got up, went to a semi-private area and started changing-consciously eyeing the priest all the time, that is, from the corner of his eye. It had been his little vanity, if one should call it such. His little vanity of seducing those charming enough to be seduced. Of course, Sanzo was far from charming; rather he was astute, cold-hearted, murderous even. He was charming in the sense that his appearance could deceive passers-by and those who catch a portion, an angle of his face, of his hair, or of his eyes. But Sanzo was far from charming.

Still, Gojyo moved languidly, careful enough to expose a little bit of everything. He even tied his hair back because it had been said more than once that he looked more striking with that look.-but the great Genjo Sanzo did not even take his eyes off the goddamned newspaper (which Gojyo bet was a few weeks old anyhow)

Frustrated, he pulled the rough fabric about his shoulders and tied the sash into a careful knot. He was beginning to think the priest was some sort of eunuch. He strolled, very nonchalantly, as was his way, towards Sanzo's little space. --Now where does he keep his gun? -Eyeing it nowhere, he propped himself down on the bed.

Sanzo moved; a quick almost unnoticeable movement. He had been off again. He had been thrown back into that room inside the monastery with the corpse of the one person he ever trusted. It frustrated him. He hated the rain. That movement manifested that he had come back to the present; a very sudden jolt it had been, but at least he was back. The kappa's intrusion had been most welcomed.

"What is it?" Gojyo heard the familiar coldness in the priest's voice. He shrugged in response.

"I thought I want to talk."

"Talk to the roaches then. I'm busy-" Predictable. He thought. Genjo Sanzo is very predictable. He was grinning. He had the old Sanzo back-and yet…

The rain suddenly was noticeable again. Not that it had ever ceased to be blatant, but it came in torrents, brutal and cold; that Gojyo felt suddenly nervous. He happened upon the windows and just outside was a terrible, terrible weather.

Lightning flashed. Anyone who ever saw the streaks of white light crossing the sky would have felt utterly helpless; utterly small. It made one think that there were far greater things than that which are obvious and tangible… that, perhaps, there was a god after all. And that Armageddon was coming.

He laughed because there was nothing else to do and he turned his gaze back at Sanzo. The priest had shrunken again, desperately hiding beneath the thin newspapers. But Gojyo knew he was trembling, and that this storm was slowly pulling his companion apart.

"You should change." Was all he managed to say and tossed the remaining robe at the priest. Gojyo was never a man of comforting words. It was also unlikely that the priest would want them anyway. "Don't be stubborn. You'd get sick."

"Who's stubborn?!" Sanzo retorted and grabbed the robe. He'd gathered enough composure to throw the paper violently at the half-breed and strut his way towards a slightly dark angle of the room. He'd change all right, but definitely not in front of the kappa.

Gojyo watched, shamelessly as the priest struggled with his sodden robes. It was dark (dammit) and he only caught glimpses of his bare back. He grunted.--"goddamn priggish monk"-and started picking on his nails, having abandoned the cigarettes already. He was thinking a talk with Hakkai concerning a certain priest with an amazingly short temper and unhappily (for them) a Smith and Wesson to go with it. Hakkai said, invariably through smiling lips, that Sanzo had been Kouryou once and that apparently he'd lost a very pivotal person in his life: Komyou Sanzo.

"Oi…" he started. He needed no answer though from the dark corner where Sanzo stood, all the while still struggling with the robe.

"I've been wondering--" still picking on his fingernails though they were impeccably clean, "I've been wondering who this Komyou Sanzo was." The shuffling from the corner stopped. Gojyo knew he was listening. He also knew he had to stop, but this, he thought, was his one time to finally `break' and burrow through the great surreptitious priest.

"Hakkai's told me about your past… well, fractions of it. I managed to put things together somehow." He stole a glance at the corner and saw that Sanzo was standing perfectly still, robe on and all. "I've always wondered why you have such a bad attitude."

He definitely should stop.

"I figured you couldn't have had such an ugly attitude at such an early age so…"

He knew he would have a bullet through his head any moment now.

"maybe, it came about because of that accident. I mean, it might have been really awful for you."

Shuffling from the corner-sound of metal against wood-any moment now…

"I wonder what he would say if he sees you now."

And a flash of lightning followed by a crash.

It could have been thunder but it resounded throughout the cramped room. Gojyo knew it had been the gun. He felt the bullet scuttle through the side of his arm but the air pressure had been strong. The bullet had not hit him… but it should have.

He stood up, still stunned, and slowly approached the figure still aiming the gun at him.

"How dare you…" came Sanzo's voice, obviously laden with rage and everything in between (sadness, hate, fear) His finger edged dangerously close to the trigger and his violet eyes shimmered. "How dare you… you don't fucking know me…" he said the words venomously, in violent gasps and sheer fury.

Gojyo almost backed away with terror. He knew he had stepped on very personal grounds, but still, that did not give the priest the right to kill him.

"How dare you…" and the finger pressed down on the trigger. But nothing came. No deathly pain, no blood, no anything. Gojyo opened his eyes (he had not even noticed he'd closed them) and saw that he was still alive and that Sanzo was trembling still with the Wesson, his finger pulling the trigger.

Click-click-click. Empty.

A scuffle, a brief second, and Gojyo held the gun triumphantly. It was a hideous, ghastly, dangerous thing and he threw it into one of the many forgotten corners of the room. He sighed. All the moment's fury gone with that small release of breath. He had a cut on his arm and had missed getting killed.

Sanzo was on the floor, blood trickling down his mouth. He did not struggle to get up. In fact, he did not move at all.

"It's your fault." Gojyo whispered. He doubted the priest heard it. "It's your fault" and he bent down, took Sanzo by the shoulders, and sat him up. With the hem of his robe-the one not bloodied from his own wound-he dabbed at the injured mouth. He half expected the priest to run amok again and start fisting him. But nothing of the sort came; only broken sighs and sad violet eyes.

The rain continued pouring outside.

Gojyo bent his head and flicked his tongue, wanting to say something along the lines of `sorry'. But he was never good at apologies. A hand, instead, had incredulously found its way to Sanzo's neck. His skin was smooth, this hand told him. And the golden tresses, uncut because of their traveling, was of a silken texture.

A most casual thing-this-he thought, as the other hand trailed down to the small of his back. Yes, a most casual thing-and his lips touched the edge of his mouth, right above the already bluish mark. Sanzo tasted like blood. But of course, after all, he had hit him hard… And cigarettes.

He was thinking, as he prodded the collarbone, as he deviously slipped a hand under the robe, how blood and cigarettes mixed together had a strangely fascinating flavor. And this was Sanzo, he had to remind himself, not because the priest had not been spellbinding enough to be put side by side with the people Gojyo'd randomly sleep with. He had to remind himself because this in front of him, already slightly writhing from his touch, was a demigod who sported a Wesson and skin-tight black tops under priestly garments.

It was funny how things were running amok again. He'd have liked to think that he had everything under control, now that he had his lips locked with another pair of slightly hesitant ones. Sanzo still tasted like blood. But of course…

He liked to think this would go accordingly with whatever he dictated. And they stumbled through the darkened room, Gojyo with his arms flailing here and there, struggling to rid the monk of his robe. The sheets were already damp because of the goddamned broken window, goddamned draft.

When he wound his arms around the priest, he knew at the very back of his head, that he was not in control of anything at all; and neither was Sanzo. They were both just moving along with some unseen, unheard, clandestine music. And the rain served as witness to all this.

He moaned because Sanzo was a demigod trapped underneath him, because Sanzo had the sharpest violet eyes, because Sanzo's skin was incredibly soft and because, really, he would have given up anything for this-he smelt strangely of rain, he thought, which was strange because he tasted of blood and cigarettes.

Their robes were on the floor, struggling with each other. Two white, rough cloths discarded. They obviously were not needed anymore. On the bed, Gojyo stifled the priest's mouth with a kiss, and he entered him in one sinuous motion. Every single strand of whatever packed the brain, left in gushes, neuron after neuron bushwhacked into another dimension. All that remained were shooting passions, blood and cigarettes and rain, and Sanzo on top of everything that mattered.

This-and their bodies moved in a rhythm-this was existence being poured into a glass.

He hadn't known when it stopped, but he came. A few more thrusts and he came and Sanzo was already struggling for breath. He knew he had hurt him. There had to be blood somewhere between their thighs. He apologized; something of a sigh near the priest's ear. If he heard him, he didn't know, because Sanzo had already closed his eyes.

---

Gojyo woke up. It was somewhere between the wee hours of three or four. It might have been earlier, but he was awake anyhow because it was cold all of a sudden. He groped for a cigarette and luckily came across one. Sanzo's brand but he smoked it anyway. It was cold, the cigarette offered illusions of warmth.

And there again were the smoke and last night's events all asunder, all breaking loose in hovering motions. But no, he would not go there-should not go there. The cigarette burned through the darkness, the dampness, through Gojyo's sharp red gaze. It had a mind of its own, the cigarette, he concluded.

A slight hitch of breath and he knew Sanzo was awake. He slid back into the covers, having finished the cigarette. He was caught immediately in the violet orbs that were strangely luminescent in the dark room. "I got some cigarettes from your pack." He stated and all at once realized how trivial that was.

Somehow the silence was better. So instead he grasped the hand that rested near his own. He knew it was too bold a thing to do. It was emblematic, really, sated with everything they failed to tell each other the night previous. He was ready to pull away, but Sanzo's fingers entwined with his. Gojyo knew everything was fine, that is, until daybreak.

"It'd stopped raining." He whispered, wondering why he had not noted that right upon opening his eyes.

"I know"

He grinned at almost having been killed last night. It was rather comical now. "It's your fault" he had said, and that somehow started it all, the kiss, the tumbling through to the bed, the discarded robes. Sanzo had been a demigod. Gojyo wanted to think-- that, for a fleeting second, he thought he loved him. But hearts and minds had always been contradictory things. He could have fallen in love with him a long time ago, only, pride got in the way.

Let me hold you. But the words never left his tongue. Let me hold you, before all these sentiments disparage at daybreak. And his arm wound its way around Sanzo's slender frame.

Sanzo tasted like blood, he thought. But of course… of course.

END.