Gensomaden Saiyuki Fan Fiction ❯ Solitude ❯ Solitude ( Chapter 1 )

Ah…a little bit of rambling from Hakkai's POV after re-reading vol. 4 of the manga recently. Needless to say it contains some mild spoilers, a healthy helping of angst, and since it's Gojyo/Hakkai (as always)…some mild, mostly implied, sex. Inspired (somewhat) by the poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay - though no one poem in particular, and the fact that, although I love Hakkai, I don't seem to be giving him a fair shake in my fics. As always, standard disclaimers apply: I don't own Saiyuki, Kazuya Minekura does, though if I did then I might be able to afford to pay for university next semester lol…sweatdrop.

 

Solitude - by Theskywasblue

 

This, he thinks, is truly being alone, in this dark and altogether barren room, the wind outside sharp once again with the lingering memories of a cold spring. Everything is dark and silent, save for the howl of the wind outside, and the soft tap-tap of a branch somewhere knocking against the wall of the inn.

The rain is unrealised potential in the air.

This is dreaded silence, the opportunity for thought and reflection when all he really wants is…

To hide, for a while, to be solitary, to be without Cho Gonou for a moment.

Although he knows it is impossible.

The dark line of ink traced on his palm is beginning to wear away, slowly, leaving behind the life that he had before. The pane of glass is cold under the weight of his hand, like dead skin.

It had been foolish to think that he had so completely buried his past. How easily it had come to the surface with the earth atop it disturbed, resurrected effortlessly by a combination of his enemy's tenacity and his own wicked desire to feel that pain once again.

In the end, he still clings to his pain. There is something inside of him that hopes, prays that what he thinks he knows is not the truth, that she is still there in the living world somewhere, and not only in the darkness of his memories.

His idle fingers trace delicate Kanji on the square of glass fogged by his steady breath.

Kanan.

He presses his palm over it, and it vanishes.

A sigh escapes his lips before he can pin it down.

Elsewhere in the inn his companions are safely asleep, their minds untroubled, while he stands at his bedroom window, watching the shadows of his past that linger outside.

A saner man would have pulled down the shade.

He has been standing there so long that his legs and back ache, but the pain is cathartic; he wants to stand there and wait for the sun to rise and chase the shadows away.

He doesn't move when he hears the door open, a pool of golden light spreading slowly across the badly worn wooden floor, silhouetting a tall figure that steps in from the hallway, closing the door and plunging the room once more into that penitent darkness. Familiar footsteps on the hardwood, a familiar pair of warm, powerful, lanky arms drape around his waist, and an intimate voice whispers, cautious, prayerful in his ear.

“Hakkai.”

Yes. This is his name now, not the patchwork of symbols he has subconsciously traced on the fogged windowpane with his long fingers. A calloused, sun-browned hand wipes the old name away, traces a new one in its place.

“You are…” the gentle voice whispers, breath warm across his ear, body warm against his back, “Cho Hakkai…”

“Yes…” he feels a smile tug at the corners of his lips, irrepressible. He cannot, in the presence of this man, who is such a creature of the present, of action, of the flesh, remain trapped in the past. He traces, carefully, the fine Kanji of the name he has long admired beneath his own, “Sha Gojyo…”

This is the man that has taught him how to live, who is slowly drawing him out of the grave that he shares with Cho Gonou.

“I thought you might need reminding,” he whispers, “if you were still awake.”

“Thank you,” Hakkai leans back into the familiar, firm warmth, savours the sensation of Gojyo's lips on the side of his neck, lips that have never lied to him, never admonished him; though he saw admonishment in that gentle face once, he now sees only acceptance in the reflection which stands behind his own. In this new life he clings to, red is not a reprimand, but a sign of acceptance, a sign of the unspoken bond that they share. They both understand what pain means, what it means to live and die.

Gojyo's arms are strong enough that Hakkai feels he could put all his weight on them and never risk falling. He relaxes, inhales Gojyo's perpetual saltwater and nicotine smell, and trusts completely.

The wind howls defiantly as Gojyo turns him, eases him back against the rattling windowpane, and kisses him, gently, deeply, warm hands pushing up Hakkai's sleeping shirt as he slides to his knees. Hakkai shudders as cold night air touches the long band of rubberized scar tissue across his belly, a wound that still aches sometimes when it rains, and pulls tight in reproach when he laughs. Strangely enough it has never ached under the pressure of Gojyo's hands, and it doesn't ache now as he runs his tongue along the raised edge, the trail of moisture chilling all too quickly on Hakkai's skin.

“Someone will see…”

Gojyo laughs, hooks his fingers in the elastic waistband of Hakkai's sleeping pants, fingers twining through the hidden tangles of wiry, near-black hair, “Let them see.”

He nuzzles the scar, kisses the warm, pale, tight skin as he eases the waistband down and runs his cheek along the sensitive flesh of Hakkai's thigh. Hakkai breathes deep, digs his fingers into the damp wood of the window frame and watches Gojyo's profound, tender eyes gazing up at him as the whole of Gojyo's hot, wet mouth encases him.

Gojyo's tongue is well-practiced, skilful, knows each and every tender point, how to activate every nerve, moving in ways that seem physically impossible; Hakkai reaches down, traces the ring of Gojyo's lips around his hardness, and is without words. There are never any suitable words for moments like this between them. Anything that needs to be said can be spoken in gestures alone. The exchange takes place in near silence, with only wet noises, faint gasps, and the sound of an unseen branch tapping to punctuate the darkness. Hakkai sees nothing but red - glorious, beautiful, aching, forgiving, devoted - when he climaxes.

“Better right?” Gojyo breathes against his stomach, arms wrapped around his thighs to support him, as always, should the need arise.

Hakkai draws him up, tastes the bitter-sweet flavour left behind on Gojyo's lips, wishing he could draw it all back into himself. It will poison Gojyo, he fears, if he cannot draw out that sin.

Slowly, Gojyo draws back, and a face without recrimination asks, “You want to be alone?”

There is just a little bit of fear in this man, Hakkai thinks, related perhaps to a childhood spent cowering in the shadows or to when and how he acquired the careful skill of his tongue - a question Hakkai himself is too afraid to ask - and so the question Gojyo asks, like the answer Hakkai gives, is always the same.

“Stay…” he loops his arms protectively, possessively, around Gojyo. Solitude, although he craves it, is unattainable; but at least with Gojyo present, there is no room left for Cho Gonou, “Stay with me.”

“Yeah?” there is a little bit of a child's joy in his acceptance, “okay.”

Gojyo's cheeks taste like old tears and unending desert. If there are eyes on them now, surely they are forgiving as Hakkai turns his own eyes towards the bed.

“Will you?”

“If that's what you want.”

With Gojyo inside of him there is no room for fear or pain, and Cho Gonou becomes nothing more than a shadow on the wall as the ache of pleasure replaces the ache of the past in Hakkai's body. Gojyo works slowly but diligently to banish the shadows and fills all the gaps in Hakkai's heart effortlessly, kills off the last cancerous cells of Chin Yisou that linger in Hakkai's blood, becomes a balm for Hakkai's body and soul. When it is over, Hakkai curls with his forehead pressed against Gojyo's collarbone and Gojyo's arms around his shoulders. Gojyo strokes his hair and kisses the top of his head. Hakkai closes his eyes, sees no shadows, and relishes a single moment when there is no desire in him to be alone.