Car (Gojyo/Sanzo Fic)
“Okay, take your shirt off.”
Sanzo did not whip his head around in surprise, but merely turned slightly to stare steadily at the other.
“What?”
Figures. First real response I get from him, and it’s because he probably thinks I’m trying to grope him. Gojyo rolled his eyes, but pressed forward.
“You hear me, you crazed monk. Shirt. Off. Now.”
“No…I-I won’t…” Sanzo’s words were drawled out lazily, his blinking slightly erratic.
“Look you asshole. You were in that rain for God-knows how fuckin’ long, just standing around like a fuckin’-” Gojyo had to stop himself: he was getting too angry right now, and he knew it wasn’t helping the situation at all.
“Just…just take it off, alright? You need to put this jacket on so you won’t freeze to death. I’ll be damned if you died in my car…however crappy it may be,” Gojyo replied tiredly, chewing more intently on his tobacco-stick, running a hand down his face.
Sanzo blinked, staring at the other man, unfocused.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then he complied.
The wet top was peeled off slowly, revealing the willowy, stretching muscles underneath in a sensual motion (though it was unconsciously done). Gojyo’s eyes drifted onto the rippling flesh for a moment, drinking in the sight…until he realized he was staring at Sanzo. Sanzo. The irritable, aloof, bastard that often made his life a living hell. But…
Damn it all to hell, but that bastard of a monk was easily one of the most beautiful sights Gojyo has ever seen (not that he’d ever admit it to the monk): lithe body, sunshine-spurned locks, aristocratic feature and sharp, mauve eyes. And while his personality wasn’t something Gojyo cared for, his sharp tongue and quick, sarcastic wit seemed to only enhance the beauty of his untouchable status. Gojyo had had many conquests: high class and lower society, soft spoken and harsh, sane and not. However, none of them even compared to the beauty and majesty of Sanzo, not by a long shot…
It was just another reason why Gojyo hated him so much.
Gojyo licked the slight drool at the corner of his mouth, putting out the cigarette that was dropping ashes in his lap. He blamed the slight shiver down his spin on the freezing sweatshirt he was still in.
“Here,” Gojyo said, handing the jacket to the blond. Sanzo took it tentatively, as if not knowing what to do with it. Gojyo then took off his own drenched sweatshirt and tossed it behind him, the heater starting to do its job of warming him up. He was glad he wore a thermal.
“Well, put it on!” the redhead shouted, hoping the other wouldn’t realize the slight blush on his cheeks. Sanzo-finally, Gojyo thought-did what he was told, and pulled the garment over his head, slowly. His wet hair became tangled considerably when he managed to push his head through the opening, pulling one limb through one arm and tiredly shoving the other through the second arm. The jacket was noticeably bigger than the other, so the blond’s hands were covered by the end of the sleeves, making him appear so innocence and helpless…
Gojyo resolved he needed to get some rest, and soon. He was obviously going insane.
…Right?
The job was done and Sanzo did not look anymore pleased or better than he did when he was in the storm. He leaned back into cushion, eyes slightly puffy from the dried tears. His hair was still in disarray, but the Buddhist did nothing to fix it.
“…Here,” Gojyo suddenly said, reaching over to untangle some of the mess that was then Sanzo’s hair. The redhead had completely pure reasoning behind wanting to touch the other’s head, and he was sure nothing so far had, in Sanzo’s eyes, labeled him wanting to jump the other’s bones. Nevertheless, Sanzo flinched distinctly as Gojyo’s large hand descended upon his golden head.
“Oi! Get over yourself, you miserable monk!” Gojyo snapped, retracting his arm back. “You’re not exactly my type, so you don’t have to worry about me jumping you or-“
“He used to do that too.”
Gojyo nearly jumped out of his seat: Sanzo’s sudden, whispered vocalism a seeming loud contrast to the silence they were just in.
“What?”
“Yeah…Yeah, he… he used to do that too.” Sanzo repeated, hazily.
“What? Who…who use to do what to you?” Gojyo replied, his mind replaying the sentence and realizing how…how wrong it sounded, and hoping slightly that Sanzo wasn’t about to confess something traumatizing and life changing to him…he didn’t think he could handle it right now.
But whether the question was heard or not, Sanzo continued with his explanation, the redhead’s words again falling on deaf ears.
“He used to pat me on the head too.” Sanzo’s voice was airy, lost: Gojyo didn’t like it. “He used to do that all the time…pat me right here.”
And Sanzo lifted a thin hand and demonstrated his explanation, patting his head lightly and suddenly grinning stupidly, eyes unfocused. Gojyo said nothing, but he was twitching a bit, eager to do something other than listen to Sanzo’s hazy stupor…but he couldn’t seem to think of anything other than to continue listen to the other’s vulnerable words.
“…And he left me too,” Sanzo continued; he had stopped patting his blond head, but the hand was left there anyway. Gojyo suddenly had an irrepressible, inane urge to just…grab that hand in his own and hold it for a little bit, just to make the blond realized that this was reality, right here, in this crappy, cheap bucket of a car in a unforgiving storm in the middle of God-knows-where and Gojyo and he were here and not his drugged-induced dreamland…
“Who left you, Sanzo? Who are you talking about?” Gojyo whispered, not trusting his voice to overpower that of the monk’s.
Sanzo slowly turned to the redhead, goofy smile no longer in place, but his tears beginning to show themselves once more, before answering: “Komyou left me, Gojyo.”
Gojyo felt he should have known, never mind it was the first time since he had fond the other man that he acknowledged who he actually was; the constant rain, the drugs, the repeating and the memories…Of course, it had to be because of Sanzo’s late mentor-and possibly the closest thing he had to a father-and the haunting memories that accompanied the fallen man.
Komyou.
He was a very easy-going, fun man, the redhead remembered. Gojyo had the pleasure of meeting him only a few times, when he and Sanzo were children. Gojyo could always remember Hakkai’s foster parents to be so strict and mean, and his own mother to be a lunatic: Komyou was the one of the only adults Gojyo ever trusted, ever liked and cared for. He always had a smile on his face, wisdom on his lips, and a long, thin pipe hanging from his mouth, smoke always floating out of it like a familiar, ghostly train leading to the vast skies. He was a monk too, Gojyo remembered, and like Sanzo, deviant in all and any monk-ly ways and behaviors. Remembering him brought a sense of recognizable comfort to Gojyo, if only for a moment…but it was soon replaced with dread.
“Komyou left me…he left me, right there…at that stop…”Sanzo rattled on, bewildered, not caring if Gojyo wasn’t listening or not. (Gojyo was sure he didn’t even realized what he was talking about at this point) The redhead’s mind suddenly drifted to a moment in time, much like this, where all he could remember was rain. Rain and shouting…
“Gojyo!”
“Yeah? Hakkai! Where the hell are you?”
“Gojyo, you need to head to the Rui’s bar! Sanzo’s been hurt and Komyou…”
“What is going on? Goku called me and he’s freaking out! What the fuck is wrong?”
“Gojyo, I’ll handle Goku! Get to the bar!”
Gojyo managed to get to the bar, and all he could remember is Goku’s screaming and Hakkai’s frantic looks and Sanzo…covered in blood.
He and Sanzo were nineteen then. That was five years ago. And it still stung.
Sanzo did not whip his head around in surprise, but merely turned slightly to stare steadily at the other.
“What?”
Figures. First real response I get from him, and it’s because he probably thinks I’m trying to grope him. Gojyo rolled his eyes, but pressed forward.
“You hear me, you crazed monk. Shirt. Off. Now.”
“No…I-I won’t…” Sanzo’s words were drawled out lazily, his blinking slightly erratic.
“Look you asshole. You were in that rain for God-knows how fuckin’ long, just standing around like a fuckin’-” Gojyo had to stop himself: he was getting too angry right now, and he knew it wasn’t helping the situation at all.
“Just…just take it off, alright? You need to put this jacket on so you won’t freeze to death. I’ll be damned if you died in my car…however crappy it may be,” Gojyo replied tiredly, chewing more intently on his tobacco-stick, running a hand down his face.
Sanzo blinked, staring at the other man, unfocused.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then he complied.
The wet top was peeled off slowly, revealing the willowy, stretching muscles underneath in a sensual motion (though it was unconsciously done). Gojyo’s eyes drifted onto the rippling flesh for a moment, drinking in the sight…until he realized he was staring at Sanzo. Sanzo. The irritable, aloof, bastard that often made his life a living hell. But…
Damn it all to hell, but that bastard of a monk was easily one of the most beautiful sights Gojyo has ever seen (not that he’d ever admit it to the monk): lithe body, sunshine-spurned locks, aristocratic feature and sharp, mauve eyes. And while his personality wasn’t something Gojyo cared for, his sharp tongue and quick, sarcastic wit seemed to only enhance the beauty of his untouchable status. Gojyo had had many conquests: high class and lower society, soft spoken and harsh, sane and not. However, none of them even compared to the beauty and majesty of Sanzo, not by a long shot…
It was just another reason why Gojyo hated him so much.
Gojyo licked the slight drool at the corner of his mouth, putting out the cigarette that was dropping ashes in his lap. He blamed the slight shiver down his spin on the freezing sweatshirt he was still in.
“Here,” Gojyo said, handing the jacket to the blond. Sanzo took it tentatively, as if not knowing what to do with it. Gojyo then took off his own drenched sweatshirt and tossed it behind him, the heater starting to do its job of warming him up. He was glad he wore a thermal.
“Well, put it on!” the redhead shouted, hoping the other wouldn’t realize the slight blush on his cheeks. Sanzo-finally, Gojyo thought-did what he was told, and pulled the garment over his head, slowly. His wet hair became tangled considerably when he managed to push his head through the opening, pulling one limb through one arm and tiredly shoving the other through the second arm. The jacket was noticeably bigger than the other, so the blond’s hands were covered by the end of the sleeves, making him appear so innocence and helpless…
Gojyo resolved he needed to get some rest, and soon. He was obviously going insane.
…Right?
The job was done and Sanzo did not look anymore pleased or better than he did when he was in the storm. He leaned back into cushion, eyes slightly puffy from the dried tears. His hair was still in disarray, but the Buddhist did nothing to fix it.
“…Here,” Gojyo suddenly said, reaching over to untangle some of the mess that was then Sanzo’s hair. The redhead had completely pure reasoning behind wanting to touch the other’s head, and he was sure nothing so far had, in Sanzo’s eyes, labeled him wanting to jump the other’s bones. Nevertheless, Sanzo flinched distinctly as Gojyo’s large hand descended upon his golden head.
“Oi! Get over yourself, you miserable monk!” Gojyo snapped, retracting his arm back. “You’re not exactly my type, so you don’t have to worry about me jumping you or-“
“He used to do that too.”
Gojyo nearly jumped out of his seat: Sanzo’s sudden, whispered vocalism a seeming loud contrast to the silence they were just in.
“What?”
“Yeah…Yeah, he… he used to do that too.” Sanzo repeated, hazily.
“What? Who…who use to do what to you?” Gojyo replied, his mind replaying the sentence and realizing how…how wrong it sounded, and hoping slightly that Sanzo wasn’t about to confess something traumatizing and life changing to him…he didn’t think he could handle it right now.
But whether the question was heard or not, Sanzo continued with his explanation, the redhead’s words again falling on deaf ears.
“He used to pat me on the head too.” Sanzo’s voice was airy, lost: Gojyo didn’t like it. “He used to do that all the time…pat me right here.”
And Sanzo lifted a thin hand and demonstrated his explanation, patting his head lightly and suddenly grinning stupidly, eyes unfocused. Gojyo said nothing, but he was twitching a bit, eager to do something other than listen to Sanzo’s hazy stupor…but he couldn’t seem to think of anything other than to continue listen to the other’s vulnerable words.
“…And he left me too,” Sanzo continued; he had stopped patting his blond head, but the hand was left there anyway. Gojyo suddenly had an irrepressible, inane urge to just…grab that hand in his own and hold it for a little bit, just to make the blond realized that this was reality, right here, in this crappy, cheap bucket of a car in a unforgiving storm in the middle of God-knows-where and Gojyo and he were here and not his drugged-induced dreamland…
“Who left you, Sanzo? Who are you talking about?” Gojyo whispered, not trusting his voice to overpower that of the monk’s.
Sanzo slowly turned to the redhead, goofy smile no longer in place, but his tears beginning to show themselves once more, before answering: “Komyou left me, Gojyo.”
Gojyo felt he should have known, never mind it was the first time since he had fond the other man that he acknowledged who he actually was; the constant rain, the drugs, the repeating and the memories…Of course, it had to be because of Sanzo’s late mentor-and possibly the closest thing he had to a father-and the haunting memories that accompanied the fallen man.
Komyou.
He was a very easy-going, fun man, the redhead remembered. Gojyo had the pleasure of meeting him only a few times, when he and Sanzo were children. Gojyo could always remember Hakkai’s foster parents to be so strict and mean, and his own mother to be a lunatic: Komyou was the one of the only adults Gojyo ever trusted, ever liked and cared for. He always had a smile on his face, wisdom on his lips, and a long, thin pipe hanging from his mouth, smoke always floating out of it like a familiar, ghostly train leading to the vast skies. He was a monk too, Gojyo remembered, and like Sanzo, deviant in all and any monk-ly ways and behaviors. Remembering him brought a sense of recognizable comfort to Gojyo, if only for a moment…but it was soon replaced with dread.
“Komyou left me…he left me, right there…at that stop…”Sanzo rattled on, bewildered, not caring if Gojyo wasn’t listening or not. (Gojyo was sure he didn’t even realized what he was talking about at this point) The redhead’s mind suddenly drifted to a moment in time, much like this, where all he could remember was rain. Rain and shouting…
“Gojyo!”
“Yeah? Hakkai! Where the hell are you?”
“Gojyo, you need to head to the Rui’s bar! Sanzo’s been hurt and Komyou…”
“What is going on? Goku called me and he’s freaking out! What the fuck is wrong?”
“Gojyo, I’ll handle Goku! Get to the bar!”
Gojyo managed to get to the bar, and all he could remember is Goku’s screaming and Hakkai’s frantic looks and Sanzo…covered in blood.
He and Sanzo were nineteen then. That was five years ago. And it still stung.