[fanfic] - untitled 58
This is a really old fic that I found lurking on my home computer the other day, but I really loved it, and felt like sharing. It's 58 gen, but with definite potential for yaoi-ness!
Title: Untitled.
Fandom: saiyuki
Pairings: 58 hints :)
Warnings: worksafe
Notes: old fic.
___________________________________________________________________________________________
Two rooms. Not too big, not too nice, and dirty as hell. Were it not for the unmade bed these two rooms would seem abandoned. For the most part, they used to be. There never used to be actual edible food in the fridge or dust-free corners before the Dead Man arrived. Before he arrived, life was largely boring and nights to be filled with anything sleep-preventing; smoking, drinking, gambling, women with nice faces that got stored in some part of his brain that Gojyo didn’t normally examine too closely. It was too close to the rest of his memories for his liking. Then the Dead Man came. Or rather, he brought him in, laid him on his bed and ran for the doctor a street or two away in the pouring rain, slipping over on the rain-slicked pavement in his haste, not really knowing why; the reason was in some other part of his brain Gojyo was uncomfortable with. Probably the bit to do with Math or Physics or some other sciency stuff he only ever half-listened to. It never really mattered, somehow. All that mattered was the Dead Man. Filling an empty room, one out of two.
A week later, he woke up. And suddenly he wasn’t the Dead Man. He was… alive. Breathing, allowing him to smoke in his own home, which he knew was stupid. But then he also knew that if the Dead Man hadn’t liked it he wouldn’t have done, and he would have gone outside in the cold for a smoke instead. He also knew it wasn’t really his home. And to the other man, now no longer the Dead Man, this was Hell, and it was anticlimactic.
It is, really.
As the man who wasn’t the Dead Man got stronger, Gojyo found himself getting used to the notion of ‘home’. He also discovered ‘friend’ and ‘food’, and a lot of long words that the man who wasn’t the Dead Man seemed to know a lot of. Most of all, though, Gojyo found himself discovering that dust was something that made him squirm when this Not Dead Man noticed it, and dishes were something that it became second nature to clear away. He also discovered that opening the window was a compromise that allowed him to smoke and talk to Not Dead Man at the same time.
Card games suddenly became interesting, and nights could become filled with them, in which Gojyo often got beaten, which was a surprise. One among many.
It was…nice having Not Dead Man here. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more Gojyo noticed how nice Not Dead Man himself was. He liked how he dressed so nicely, in clothes Gojyo lent to him because they somehow looked better on him than on himself, and how his eyes looked into you, but not into the bits you didn’t want to yourself. He liked his face when he smiled at his frustrations, and the kind words that came after. Usually about how “You might win next time, Gojyo.” But it still felt nice.
It felt nicer when Not Dead Man slept, and he could watch Not Dead Man without feeling bad about privacy, because Not Dead Man was open and closed at the same time, and Gojyo knew that Not Dead Man was too tidy to let him stumble across something he wasn’t supposed to find. So he stared, another pastime which fought off sleep, which was now more restful when it came. Something about Not Dead Man just made you that way.
It was like Not Dead Man would be there forever. An eternal thing of nameless beauty that made the world a nicer, cleaner, less painful place to exist in. Then, suddenly, he was leaving.
Reality and realization closed in; there wasn’t going to be a Not Dead Man anymore. At once, Gojyo felt the need to ask all the questions he hadn’t asked Not Dead Man yet that he had thought of in the middle of the night when Not Dead Man was sleeping. Stuff that retreated to a part of his brain that Gojyo only frequented when Not Dead Man was asleep and his face softened, framed by hair that trailed gently down his long neck and over his delicate cheeks, just nearly reaching his lips. Questions suddenly leapt at Gojyo from all the recesses of his brain, crowding for space in somewhere that was suddenly too small to contain them all. Somehow, one made it to his mouth before Not Dead Man reached the door.
“Hey… tell me something. What’s your name?”
Suddenly Gojyo realized Not Dead Man was the most important part of his life.
crossposted to 1000_miles_west and saiyukiyaoi
Title: Untitled.
Fandom: saiyuki
Pairings: 58 hints :)
Warnings: worksafe
Notes: old fic.
___________________________________________________________________________________________
Two rooms. Not too big, not too nice, and dirty as hell. Were it not for the unmade bed these two rooms would seem abandoned. For the most part, they used to be. There never used to be actual edible food in the fridge or dust-free corners before the Dead Man arrived. Before he arrived, life was largely boring and nights to be filled with anything sleep-preventing; smoking, drinking, gambling, women with nice faces that got stored in some part of his brain that Gojyo didn’t normally examine too closely. It was too close to the rest of his memories for his liking. Then the Dead Man came. Or rather, he brought him in, laid him on his bed and ran for the doctor a street or two away in the pouring rain, slipping over on the rain-slicked pavement in his haste, not really knowing why; the reason was in some other part of his brain Gojyo was uncomfortable with. Probably the bit to do with Math or Physics or some other sciency stuff he only ever half-listened to. It never really mattered, somehow. All that mattered was the Dead Man. Filling an empty room, one out of two.
A week later, he woke up. And suddenly he wasn’t the Dead Man. He was… alive. Breathing, allowing him to smoke in his own home, which he knew was stupid. But then he also knew that if the Dead Man hadn’t liked it he wouldn’t have done, and he would have gone outside in the cold for a smoke instead. He also knew it wasn’t really his home. And to the other man, now no longer the Dead Man, this was Hell, and it was anticlimactic.
It is, really.
As the man who wasn’t the Dead Man got stronger, Gojyo found himself getting used to the notion of ‘home’. He also discovered ‘friend’ and ‘food’, and a lot of long words that the man who wasn’t the Dead Man seemed to know a lot of. Most of all, though, Gojyo found himself discovering that dust was something that made him squirm when this Not Dead Man noticed it, and dishes were something that it became second nature to clear away. He also discovered that opening the window was a compromise that allowed him to smoke and talk to Not Dead Man at the same time.
Card games suddenly became interesting, and nights could become filled with them, in which Gojyo often got beaten, which was a surprise. One among many.
It was…nice having Not Dead Man here. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more Gojyo noticed how nice Not Dead Man himself was. He liked how he dressed so nicely, in clothes Gojyo lent to him because they somehow looked better on him than on himself, and how his eyes looked into you, but not into the bits you didn’t want to yourself. He liked his face when he smiled at his frustrations, and the kind words that came after. Usually about how “You might win next time, Gojyo.” But it still felt nice.
It felt nicer when Not Dead Man slept, and he could watch Not Dead Man without feeling bad about privacy, because Not Dead Man was open and closed at the same time, and Gojyo knew that Not Dead Man was too tidy to let him stumble across something he wasn’t supposed to find. So he stared, another pastime which fought off sleep, which was now more restful when it came. Something about Not Dead Man just made you that way.
It was like Not Dead Man would be there forever. An eternal thing of nameless beauty that made the world a nicer, cleaner, less painful place to exist in. Then, suddenly, he was leaving.
Reality and realization closed in; there wasn’t going to be a Not Dead Man anymore. At once, Gojyo felt the need to ask all the questions he hadn’t asked Not Dead Man yet that he had thought of in the middle of the night when Not Dead Man was sleeping. Stuff that retreated to a part of his brain that Gojyo only frequented when Not Dead Man was asleep and his face softened, framed by hair that trailed gently down his long neck and over his delicate cheeks, just nearly reaching his lips. Questions suddenly leapt at Gojyo from all the recesses of his brain, crowding for space in somewhere that was suddenly too small to contain them all. Somehow, one made it to his mouth before Not Dead Man reached the door.
“Hey… tell me something. What’s your name?”
Suddenly Gojyo realized Not Dead Man was the most important part of his life.
crossposted to 1000_miles_west and saiyukiyaoi