Disclaimer: Saiyuki is not mine. I don't remember whose it is, but it isn't mine.
Warning: This is yaoi. Very yaoi. Do not read if homosexuality offends.
Notes: Written at 1-4 am, because I felt like it. There may be confusion, as I don't remember the episode real well, and I've no idea when this takes place. I guess any time. Hakkai/Gojyo.
The Color of Blood
Hair the color of blood…
I run my hands through it, reveling in the silken strands as Gojyo sleeps. He does not stir, and I am glad for it. Of all the horrible things I’ve done, this is the only one I would have trouble explaining. This is the only one with consequences I am afraid to face; consequences that could shatter me as all else has failed to do.
It is beautiful, his hair. It flows like water under the sun, shines dark like blood in firelight; grounding me, an anchor, with a chain of memories. His breathing is slow, even, as I sit beside him on the bed. He sleeps in his clothes, as all of us do, and yet he looks different. He looks lonely; no matter how much space he sprawls over he always looks lonely, for in sleep his smile fades, and the scars glow bright in the moonlight.
I wonder if I look lonely, too, when I sleep. I know that Sanzo doesn’t; I used to share a room with him. He looks stern when he sleeps, as if he is just pretending; just trying to deceive you into thinking he is when he is really watching you. He is actually asleep, though.
Goku doesn’t look lonely, either. He looks innocent, as always, and more recently content. But, then, he would be; with Sanzo’s arm around him like that.
Gojyo stirs in his sleep, shifting sideways, and I jump a bit because I think he’s woken. He hasn’t though; his breathing still slow and easy, and I relax, falling back into my thoughts as my hands sift through his hair again. Like blood on my hands, it is, but I don’t pull away. There has always been blood on my hands, no need to change that now; especially not when it feels so right. I am sane, as I am not on my own, when I am around Gojyo. I am reminded of my faults, but also that despite this, I matter to someone.
Perhaps not as much as I want to matter to him, but I will take what I can get. Losing my almost-sister was hard enough; I don’t want to lose him as well. My hands are on his face, now.
They ghost, seemingly of their own mind, over the sharp planes, smoothing downwards towards the arching eyebrows; the cheekbones, rough with short stubble; the scars, stark against tan skin. My fingers linger on the marks. They are healed, yes, but only physically. I know how much they pain him in memories; I see it in his eyes when anyone mentions a mother. A brother. A family. He has no family, only his friends.
I would gladly be his family, but I do not think he wants that of me. He chases women relentlessly, and he will find one worthy of him, someday, and settle down and build a family as one is supposed to be. Only, no one is worthy of him. Especially not me; with my tainted past and mangled eye and false smiles.
I would give anything to try, though, I realize as my fingers linger over soft lips. I would give anything to make him happy, to erase the loneliness and cement the smile so that it does not crumble in sleep.
Then suddenly I’m leaning forward, brushing my lips against his, and they are softer than I could have imagined. There is a weird surge of…something, like dragon wings in my stomach, and my heart beats faster as Gojyo moves again. My eyes widen as I realize what I’ve done and pull away, even though I don’t want to.
What I want is to run my hands down the smooth skin of his stomach, to feel the planes of his muscles and make him moan under my kisses. I want to bury my fingers in hair the color of blood, and remember, and forget, and press my lips against his abdomen, his chest, his collarbone, his scars, and his lips. I want to feel the weird energy of another kiss, but not hidden in dreams and darkness. I want to feel him under me, over me; everywhere. I want to taste him and touch him and breathe him. I want to tell him that I love him; him and the hair and eyes that he curse and the blood that makes them so. I want to tell him that I’ll love him forever, until the world crumbles and the sun dies and that I will stay with him until then, if he’ll let me.
But instead I sigh, heavy in my chest, and push the silken strands behind an ear as he sleeps before my hand runs down his face once more, and then over his arm to glide to the fingers where they dig loosely into the blanket. Just before I move back to my bed, I lean forward one more to press a kiss against his forehead, as I do every night. He continues to sleep, as he does every night, and the cycle continues, as it always will.
I step towards my bed, but before I’ve fully moved something grabs my hand, pulls me over, and I fall back onto the bed. Gojyo is awake, staring at me as if deciding what to say. I close my eyes, turn my head away and pull my hand from his, knowing he probably doesn’t want to touch me.
I want to say something calming, something that will explain what I’ve done, but there is nothing. There are no words to remedy this, and outside the moon glows and spills its light on the worn wooden floor. It throws him into high relief as he stares at me, beautiful and pale with hair like blood.
I want to run when I realize what will come next. I want to dive out the window and disappear, to cry for things that I’ve destroyed and pray for the death I thought I’d abandoned long ago when a stranger with hair like blood made me live.
I refuse to meet his eyes, afraid of what I’ll see there, and desperately search the room for something to see besides him as he stares at me. But the room is blurry; silently shaking in an earthquake only I can feel. I wonder why nothing falls over before I realize that it is me; I’m shaking, not the room. My arms hold me in an attempt to stop the shuddering, but I was never good at helping myself.
Then suddenly there are hands around mine, steadying me, and I look up into blood red eyes that quell the madness inside of me, and Gojyo smiles, and the arms tighten. I am drawn back onto the bed until his legs curl around mine as well and I am in his lap, and I can’t think when his lips descend upon mine and the fluttering returns to my stomach. Then he pulls away. I don’t know what is supposed to come next.
“Hakkai?” His voice is lilting, familiar, as he stares down at me, his hair like a curtain around us. I try to respond, but my voice won’t work. Gojyo understands, though, like he always does.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he inquires softly, a breath against my ear, and I shudder, but not in fear. He knows the answer, of course, because he knows me, but he also knows that in asking he’s answered my questions, and doesn’t let me reply before he’s kissed me again.
I respond this time, twisting on his lap, and his hands slip under my shirt to glide across my stomach. Then we’re falling backwards, him on top of me, and I free my hands to run them through his hair. He smiles, lazy and flirtatious, and pulls my shirt off before kissing a path down my chest, skimming his teeth over sensitive nipples in such a way that I gasp, and he laughs against my skin. I love the sound of it, and smile in return as I pull him back up for another kiss.
Then I’m looking into eyes the color of hair the color of blood, and I grow uneasy again. Fingers run over my hip bones, pushing the waistband of my jeans down, and my half-glasses are slipped from my face by long fingers as he kisses the twisted flesh beneath.
“You are beautiful,” he tells my throat in such a way that I actually believe him, and then I’m pulling off his clothes, reveling in the feel of skin against mine as we kiss again. A tongue runs against my teeth, and when I moan softly with his touch it slips inside, and my fingers dig into his hair as I pull him down.
One hand supports my head as he reaches for something, and then he pulls away. I look up, disappointed, to see him holding a small bottle. He asks with a slight tilt of his head as his free hand dances on the waist of my jeans.
“Why do you…?” My question trails off, and I give a sheepish smile. He grins in return.
“Wishful thinking,” he assures me, and I fall silent as I think. It is supposed to hurt, am I ready?
But this is Gojyo; he would never hurt me intentionally, not unless there was no other way. So I nod, and he upends the small bottle in his hand, and the silken liquid shimmers with moonlight.
Then his lips are on mine, trailing down to bite at the deliciously sensitive junction of shoulder and neck, and his free hand gently twists my nipple and I can’t see anything but him as I gasp and arch my back. Then a singer digit pushes inside of me, long and slick with oil, and I almost can’t feel it in the pleasure. Then another, and it feels strange, alien, and he pauses to let me adjust. I can feel my muscles clenching, and my breathing is erratic from his kisses and touch, and my groin is tight with lust. A third finger joins the others, and it is very definitely uncomfortable, now. A small sound escapes my throat, but even I am not sure what it is supposed to mean, and just as my mind starts to wonder if this was really such a good idea the fingers wiggle, and the next thing I know my nerves are on fire; a delicious liquid fire that jolts directly to my stomach and lower regions, and I would arch again if I could move.
Gojyo bites the sensitive flesh at my throat, rolls the nub of my nipple between his long fingers, and I try to say something, then, though I can’t remember what because the fingers move again and all thoughts desert me.
“Nnngghh!” is all that I can manage, and soft lips against my jawbone move to tell me to relax, that this might hurt, that he’s sorry if it does, and then the digits are gone, and I’ve barely time to mourn their loss before something much bigger pushes against the ring of muscle, slipping slowly inside.
It did hurt, and despite my best efforts I feel my muscles tighten. Hands slide up to cup my face, and Gojyo kisses me again before pulling back to gaze into my eyes.
“Just relax, babe,” he whispers, thumbs stroking my cheeks, and I manage a hurried nod, wanting him to get on with it. He blinks in a slow, reassuring manner, and I bury my fingers in the sheet of red hair and tell him to continue.
He slides slowly into me, all the way to the hilt, and then stops. My breathing is hard now, my legs wrapped around his hips in an attempt to ease the stretching feeling, and he whispers apologies to my eyelids.
A minute passes, and the pain is almost gone. I tighten my muscles around him experimentally, and a soft intake of breath against my throat is the response, and Gojyo runs his hands across my stomach.
“You ready?” he asks, and I tell him I am, even though I don’t really feel it. He pulls out a bit, pauses, and slides back in. It doesn’t hurt, anymore, just feels a bit odd. I let my fingers explore his backbone as his lips press themselves into my hair. He moves his hips again, a bit harder now, and the pain is almost completely gone, replaced by an odd whisper of something almost achieved. I shift a bit as he drives back in, and my nerves explode, just for a moment, and from somewhere far away I feel my nails dig into his back, my legs clamp around his waist.
I forget to breathe for a second, and then I’m shocked back by lips around my nipple, and inside me Gojyo brushes the spot again and I let out a surprised moan, arching towards him and stretching my inner muscles into new positions. He’s moving faster now, and my legs are shaking with the effort of staying wrapped around him, and I try to pull myself closer to him but my muscles are jelly and my nerves are exploding and white lights dance across my vision, and I want to tell him I love him but I know the words would be incoherent right now.
It’s even faster, now, and harder, and I’m shaking with euphoria and I push myself against him in the rhythm he’s set, and my muscles are clenching around him and then Gojyo moans; a beautiful thickness of my name and ecstasy and I want to see his face, but my vision has gone white, and it is all I can see; white and red.
My hands are woven into his hair, my legs still somehow gripping his hips, and he’s moving fast, now; very fast, and I can’t think but for the pleasure and I can feel myself shaking with it as he drives into the point deep inside me again and again and I can feel myself slipping when his hand moves down to grip my arousal. His name slips past my lips, and I don’t remember much after that, until he wraps me in his arms and lies down beside me, and I ask him for how long.
“The first time you beat me at cards,” he tells me, pressing a kiss against my forehead, “I remember thinking you must have been a god or something, because I was cheating, and you still won.” I was wounded, back then. Almost dead. Typical Gojyo to do something like that even when his opponent was hurt. Of course, he only cheated when it didn’t matter; where there was no win or lose beyond the title you gave it, and I poked him and told him he was a bastard and he just smiled against my hair and told me to shut up and go to sleep.
I was expecting awkwardness in the morning; for us to stumble around and avoid each other’s eyes and jump at small noises, but there was none of that. He woke up because I did, and kissed the corner of my mouth, and told me he’d be downstairs because damned if he’d let that stupid monkey eat everything in the inn.
They were fighting when I got downstairs; Goku trying to climb around Gojyo as my redhead hunched protectively over his plate, and I smiled at the sight of it, enjoying the familiarity and the comforting snap of a paper fan on thick skulls that I couldn’t help but love. Sanzo sighed in frustration as I walked into the room, his hand against his forehead, and he told me to get the damn jeep ready before he killed these idiots.
Since then, I’ve yet to know if I looked lonely when I slept; but Gojyo says that I don’t now. I know that he doesn’t, either, because sometimes I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and watch him, and he’ll curl an arm sleepily around my shoulders and drag me back down, and I’ll run my hand through his hair the color of blood that serves as my anchor and smile into eyes the color of hair the color of blood as I fall asleep again. Blood is not the only thing that is red, though, and I’ve learned that since then. Apples are red, too, shared between us on picnics, and sunsets watched together, and roses that grow wild in the forests where we journey. Blood, yes, but rubies too, precious and beautiful, and the sly foxes in the woodlands, and birds that sing in the morning when we wake.
Lots of things are red, not just blood or Gojyo’s hair, and I understand that, now, as does he. We understand that the past is forgivable; behind you, if you try to create a better future, and I plan to do that. With him, and his hair the color of apples; of sunsets, of roses and rubies and wild things. No longer hair just the color of blood.
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